


the fire of life

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Dual Narrative, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingon lives, Fisting, Flashbacks, Gray Morality, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Maedhros' Stump, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Evil Mairon, Plot With Porn, Polyamory, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Threesome - M/M/M, Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020, all tagged ships are consensual, it's actually stump-fucking this is Maedhros we're talking about, it's complicated - Freeform, really it's a lot of plot rounded off with some porn, sort of? it's more like..., though not always...healthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26299528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: Mairon was the only good part of Maedhros' time in Angband, but Fingon could never believe that. Now Fingon is the captive and Maedhros the rescuer, and he will have to accept the truth of his lover's history with Mairon if he ever wants to see him again.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo/Sauron | Mairon, Fingon | Findekáno/Sauron | Mairon, Maedhros | Maitimo/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 26
Kudos: 60
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	the fire of life

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [with this ring i thee wed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25931365) by [mallyrn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallyrn/pseuds/mallyrn). 



> This story is part of the [Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang](http://tolkienrsb.tumblr.com/) 2020, and was inspired by [art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25931365) from [@silmallyrn](http://silmallyrn.tumblr.com/) aka mallyrn! I kept getting drawn back to this image and the Maedhros/Mairon prompt, and ever since reading the incredible [_Grow as we go_](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697428) series I've been obsessed with that ship + Fingon, AND I've always wanted to write a Fingon Lives AU, so I was very excited when I was able to claim it! mallyrn has been an incredible collaborator - thank you so much for sharing your headcanons and letting me run wild with the plot and for being patient when this took a bit longer than expected!!
> 
> I've marked this as Choose Not To Warn because things are kind of...complicated. All the tagged ships are consensual, although they are not always...healthy, but there are undertones and implications of off-screen abuse as well as misunderstandings of relationships as abusive, though that was not necessarily the case. There is also referenced torture, although none of it happens within the text and again it is not between any people who are part of the tagged ships.
> 
> This fic is not kind to Melkor, sorry Melkor fans. Also, while there are some implications of (past, abusive) Angbang, Melkor does not actually make an appearance in the fic, though he is frequently discussed.
> 
> Most of this fic is non-explicit, but there are references to sex throughout, toward the end I round it off with some porn :)
> 
> This is now officially the longest oneshot I've ever written - beating out my [weird Les Mis/Supernatural crossover fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11324829) that employs the exact same structure as this, lmao.
> 
> I took a lot of inspiration from other fics for characterization and various scenes; I will link those in the end notes. All translations of Quenya/Sindarin words and phrases that I think might be necessary will also be in the end notes.
> 
> This is also my first time really digging into Mairon as a character! This isn't really how I see him in "canon" but I had a LOT of fun with this interpretation of him, and I may return to something like it in a future fic :o
> 
> The title of this fic was taken from the Silm, in a section discussing Maedhros' recovery: _"There Maedhros in time was healed; for the fire of life was hot within him, and his strength was of the ancient world, such as those possessed who were nurtured in Valinor. His body recovered from his torment and became hale, but the shadow of his pain was in his heart; and he lived to wield his sword with left hand more deadly than his right had been."_
> 
> About 2/3 of this fic was hand-written in my [Maedhros notebook](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/620051994965671936/part-2-of-my-redbubble-order-i-am-a-slut-for)! This fic has been in the making for several months, and I'm so happy I finally get to share it with you. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy!!

**Angband, year 472 of the First Age, evening of Midsummer's Day.**

Mairon feels like he's been thrown back in time. It's the same as it had been, all those centuries ago: the High King of the Noldor dropped in a bloody, crumpled heap at his feet, Thuringwethil chittering with glee and hissing out everything she wants to do to him, shock and revulsion building in his gut as he realizes what is expected of him—

But this time is different, because Mairon's done this all before. This time is different, because it isn't beautiful, broken Maitimo as his prisoner, but Fingon the Valiant, who took Maitimo away from him in every possible way.

"Hush," he orders, and Thuringwethil falls silent, settling into her roost in the rafters of Mairon's lofty chambers. (It's the same room, he realizes. He's back to his old quarters after losing Tol-in-Gaurhoth, no longer in the lap of ~~his Master~~ luxury.)

His hands shake, shift from manicured and pristine to gnarled claws. He doesn't understand how _angry_ he is until that moment—angry that he is once more his Master's torturer, that Fingon is here at all, that he has been put in this position _again_.

There is a part of him that wants to leap upon Fingon and tear his throat out, to sup on his marrow and let Thuringwethil clean up after him. But there is also a part of him that remembers Maitimo and the aching longing with which he spoke of his Findekáno, the sparkle in his ruby's eyes when he smiled at Mairon, the wistful way he mused on how regretful it was that he could not be with Mairon and Finno both—

Mairon cannot decide which of the creatures inside him to listen to: the wolf that would devour, or the cat that would play with the gift offered to him.

He settles for something in-between, something crafty and foxlike, though he has not yet decided if the elf before him will live or die. If he takes care of Fingon's wounds now, he will last longer, give Mairon more time to choose.

He doesn't know how Fingon survived when Gothmog so proudly proclaimed Angband's victory at this Fifth Battle, how he'd bested another High King—he doesn't know why Thuringwethil dragged Fingon here, to _him_ —but Mairon is nothing if not resourceful, and though he doesn't yet know how to use it, he has been granted a valuable tool, an _opportunity_.

Mairon has been waiting for an opportunity. He won't discard this one, not now.

Mairon gets to work. He can feel Thuringwethil's inquiring gaze upon him as he draws out basins of water and alcohol. He cleans Fingon's wounds, glad the elf is not awake to scream, and strips him of his armor.

(Maitimo's clothes had been burned, but Mairon will not do that here, not when he might find some use for them. No, they will be washed and repaired, and he will perhaps don them himself.)

Fingon's leg is broken in two places; whip marks cut across his back and mar his handsome face; his hair is singed, and halo of ash surrounds his scalp. Had Gothmog's stroke been true, his head would've been cloven in twain—and yet Gothmog had _not_ killed Fingon, had even let Thuringwethil carry him away...

Mairon closed his mind as he worked. He could not think of what he did now; he let himself fall back into memory, of a time long ago when he did this to another elven body—fair, red-haired, and tall—a time when he had been naive and unjaded and so easily entranced by his Master's newest plaything...

* * *

**Angband, before the rise of the Moon.**

"I wish you would stop that," Maitimo whispers. He's too tired and injured to make demands—he used up all his fight on Moringotto. But at least Moringotto was upfront about his malice; this servant of his feigns sympathy and in a way, that makes Maitimo feel sicker.

The Úmaia pauses. His eyes are wide and orange, slitted like a cats'; he even moves in a feline manner, ears twitching and nose wrinkling like Nerdanel's pets when they were curious about something.

(No, not curious, Maitimo corrects himself. _Hunting_. This Úmaia is his enemy.)

"Stop what?" the Úmaia asks, his eyes oh-so-wide and innocent.

Maitimo waves a hand weakly. "All of this...pretense, that you feel sorry for me. That you care about more than cleaning my wounds so I look pretty before my next beating."

The Úmaia frowns. "Would you rather I be terrifying?" For a moment his form shifts, and he is a fiery creature, both bright and dark at the same time, and eyes cover every inch of his fana—

Maitimo cringes, something within him breaking. He's not sure if he's relieved or disappointed, that his suspicions are proven true, but at least he knows—

But then the horror before him snaps back into place, and again it is a young nér with cat-eyed innocence and hair the color of flames that stands before him, cleaning his wounds with practiced gentleness.

"I thought you would prefer this shape," the Úmaia murmurs. "I know my Master is cruel to you; it is his way. Perhaps if you gave him what he wants—"

" _Never_ ," Maitimo growls, and the Úmaia shrugs.

"Then he will be cruel until the end of Arda." The Úmaia is unperturbed by his outburst. "There is no use resisting him. You ought to have surrendered before he got violent. He will have what he wants, one way or another—it is better to allow him to reward you for your loyalty than wring his desires out of you by force."

"Is that what you did, Úmaia?" Maitimo challenges.

The Úmaia blinks. "Of course. I am known for my cleverness. It would be wasteful to let him beat me down when the end result would be the same. He wanted me—he wanted my service—so I gave it to him, rather than being forced into slavery."

Maitimo curls his lip. "Do you know nothing of honor, of loyalty?"

"Of course. I simply find those traits to have less value than you give them." The Úmaia pats him on the cheek. The gesture is almost...intimate. Maitimo shivers; he wants to lean into the touch, to let himself be comforted, be held...

But this is a willing servant of darkness. No. He will not be tricked into _trusting_ this Úmaia.

" _This_ ," he hisses. "This is what I mean. Stop—feigning _kindness_ , when you mean to deliver me back to _him_ —"

"You don't deserve only cruelty, Maitimo," the Úmaia interrupts. "It would be a shame to permanently mar such an admirable creation as yourself. If I can heal you and ease your burdens—"

"Do not insult me with _flattery_ ," Maitimo snaps. "I am not a pretty toy for you to play with—"

"You are very like me, in a way," the Úmaia hums. " _Mai_ timo; _Mai_ ron. Admirable, beautiful, well-shaped, prize creations—were nurtured in the same forges, did you know? I served Aulë before my lord Melkor, as did your parents."

"Traitor," Maitimo spits, but that is not news to either of them.

"Let me care for you, Maitimo," the Úmaia—Mairon—says gently. He leans down, presses a kiss to Maitimo's forehead, and he hates that he finds it so warm and comforting.

Maitimo struggles upright, pushes him away. "Never," he insists, for he will _not_ be deceived by any cruel servant of Moringotto. "Leave me be!"

Mairon's face falls, but he backs off. "Alright," he murmurs. "But I mean it, Maitimo. If you reconsider..."

Just _what_ is he implying? Maitimo refuses to dwell on it, refuses to imagine what it would be like to held in such warmth, to be cradled by it...

"Get out," he snarls, and is surprised that Mairon obeys, flashing him one last glance of concern before he goes.

(What if he is sincere? Maitimo wonders that sleepless night? Would it truly be so wrong to find comfort where he can in this dark and dreadful place?

There is no answer, for this is no prayer.)

* * *

**Angband, summer F.A. 472.**

When he wakes, he _hurts_ , and if this is death, Fingon's going to have a few words with Námo about how he treats the fëar in his care.

But—well. Fingon's never been dead before, so he could be wrong, but it doesn't seem like he's lost his hröa. He feels the ache of battle-won bruises, a stiffness on his face where he swears he had been whipped to death, a splitting headache where he's certain his skull should be split in two...

But he draws a shaking breath, and he _lives_. How? Why? Has Maedhros saved him from doom, repaid the debt Fingon tried and failed to assured him was long forgiven? Have they _won_? Is the bright future they planned ahead of them?

He opens his eyes and winces at the brightness before him. Two fiery orbs— _three_ eyes? four? he must be delirious, he can't even tell how many—peer down at him in interest and concern.

"You're awake," says a voice that is at once alien and familiar, for Fingon has heard that voice, again and again, but in the mind and memories of another.

"Sauron," he growls, and tries to rise up to confront him, but he is too weak and he falls back down into the bed he lies upon.

And what a bed! This is no prisoner's pallet or healer's cot, but soft and plush and huge, with silken sheets and half a dozen pillows! It reminds Fingon of his bed in Tirion, only slightly less grand than the High King's bed in Barad Eithel...

But if Sauron was here—if Fingon was a captive—then the war had been _lost_ , and he should not be in a bed like this.

Fingon collapses, flummoxed, into the comfort of the pillows. He'll enjoy the extravagance while it lasts, he decides.

Before him the Úmaia... _pouts_. "I know you have no good opinion of me, your _Majesty_ , but I would prefer you call me by my true name. I am not _stinky_ —can't you tell that by how lovely my room is?"

"Where am I, fiend?" Fingon demands, clutching at the silken sheets.

Sauron curls his lip. "Really, you should be _thanking_ me, King Fingon. I save your life, nurse you back to health, give you my own bed...and you have the nerve to call me fiend!"

"I know what you really are," Fingon growls. He can barely think over the rage that builds within him. This _monster_ killed Finrod—this _demon_ tortured and violated Maedhros—!

A shadow passes over Sauron's face, and his extraneous eyes snap shut, twisting in on themselves and disappearing under his skin. "I suppose Maitimo has told you," he murmurs. "Though there is another side to...what happened between us. Still, _you_ are the one who saved him from my 'awful clutches'—"

"Do not _dare_ speak that name!" Fingon shouts, and he is gratified to see Sauron twitch. "It was _you_ who made him feel so unworthy of it— _you_ who destroyed his spirit—"

"I did none of that," Sauron snaps, and Fingon flinches back as he snarls like a dog. "I gave him everything I could, and he cast it aside like it meant nothing—"

"You are cruel and deceptive," Fingon yells, trying to lash out at him with shaking hands, "and it took me so long to help him recover, and now—" All the blood drains from his face. If Fingon is captured, given to Sauron as a plaything—that means Maedhros must be dead. The thought pierces Fingon's heart and a sob wrenches itself out of him, and he is weak, so weak and foolish, this is _his_ fault, oh _Maedhros_ —

"I am trying to _help_ you," Sauron hisses. "Do you think I'm doing this for _you_ , O mighty King? No, I'm doing it because _he loves you_ , and despite everything, I still—"

"You killed him," Fingon cries, and he throws himself on top of Sauron with what little strength he has left in him, beating him uselessly with trembling fists. "Do not speak of _love_ , you know _nothing_ of love—"

"I preserved you," Sauron growls, grabbing Fingon by the wrists and glaring at him with far too many of those glowing orange eyes, protruding all over his body, "for _his_ sake. He is not dead, though he and your broken, scattered excuse for a Union believe _you_ dead, and if you don't start showing me some gratitude for saving you I might just make those rumors true!"

Fingon is dumbstruck. He shouldn't believe a word of what this liar says, but the very thought of—of Maedhros thinking him dead—

They'd talked about the possibility, but they both had been more worried for Maedhros' life than Fingon's. As much as it would shatter Fingon's heart to lose his beloved a second time, it must be utterly _destroying_ Maedhros to lose Fingon. He—he has to—he must—

Sauron pushes him back down into the bed, all but straddling him like a ~~lover~~ whore. Fingon is too numb to protest, exhaustion washing over him like a wave after his outburst, and he nearly misses the strange flash of pity in the Úmaia's eyes, just two of them now as he gentles once more.

He remembers what Maedhros told him, what Fingon had convinced him had all been part of deception and torment. But with those eyes... ~~Had he been wrong?~~

No. He can't afford to think like that—not here, not now—

"Sleep, little kingling," Sauron coos. "Rest, and I will prove my good intentions when you wake."

Fingon cannot resist: he drifts into darkness.

* * *

**Angband, before the rise of the Moon.**

Mairon can't help the rage that burns within him, leaping in flames across his skin. Usually he is not present when his Master plays with the prisoners, but _this_ time—

Maitimo, limp on the floor, shivering despite the sweltering heat. Maitimo, bloodied and broken beneath Melkor's foot, Melkor _laughing_.

This is not torture for information, for any _result_. It is torture for _fun_ , because Melkor _can_ , and _that_ is what makes Mairon's blood boil. He is supposed to be the torturer, but his Master doesn't trust him to do his job, or he senses how Maitimo makes him soft, or he's just that cruel and perhaps just as evil as the elves and Valar say.

He dares not interrupt, but he catches Maitimo's eye and sees the _weariness_ there—he is almost as broken in spirit as he is in body. And what a spirit: bright, glorious, burning, beautiful as a precious ruby! Maitimo's physical form he can repair, that's his specialty, why Melkor keeps him around...but repairing a broken fëa—that is beyond him.

He carries the poor elf to his own room this time, lays him down gently on his silken sheets. He sets to work, lets the long-practiced motion of his hands in healing, in revivification, take over—and yet even now his rage burns, barely suppressed beneath his skin.

This time, though—this time Maitimo does not flinch away or call him names.

"You smell like the forge," Maitimo whispers, and Mairon snaps closed any open eyes besides the two expected of him. "Like...home..."

"You are not at home, Maitimo," Mairon murmurs, which is as close to an apology as he can manage.

"I know." Maitimo sighs, leaning into Mairon's touch, and Mairon _wants_ —

Maitimo is beautiful, even broken and remade by his very own hands. He glitters, his spirit bright and resilient, like a ruby. He is something wondrous and shining in this dark pit Mairon finds himself in; and Mairon is so _lonely_ ever since he realized his Master cares for him only so long as he is useful.

It's wrong, it's traitorous—but Mairon is already a traitor, to the home and forges Maitimo remembers that had once been his as well. It's wrong because Maitimo deserves better, because he _has_ someone better, his precious Findekáno...but still Mairon _wants_ , and he melts as Maitimo falls into his arms, weeping softly.

"I shouldn't," he chokes out, but Maitimo only clings harder.

"Don't go," he begs, "don't leave me alone..."

"You've made yourself clear," Maitimo insists through numb lips. "You don't want my pity..."

"I need you," Maitimo rasps, and his silver eyes shine with all the Light Mairon thought he'd forsaken. "I know what I said, Mairon, but—I need _someone_ , and you're so warm and you—you _care_ , I think I believe that now despite everything I should think about you, and you're kind and good in this hellish place and—deserve this pain, I brought my people to ruin, I betrayed Finno, but you're a traitor too and—"

Mairon can't hold himself back any longer. He relents, lets Maitimo drag him down into a messy kiss, and he burns and burns and burns, and Maitimo burns with him.

* * *

**Amon Ereb, late summer F.A. 472.**

He hasn't slept in weeks. Maglor's been leading in his stead; he's useless beyond a figurehead. The twins are in charge of distracting Curufin and Celegorm, and Caranthir is Maedhros' watchdog, ready to muzzle him at the slightest sign of madness—Maglor's trained them well, anticipated every outcome, even the one Maedhros never dared planned for. The one he lives now.

Fingon, his Findekáno, _Kánya_ , is—

(It wasn't supposed to be this way. _Maedhros_ was supposed to die if one of them had to—not _Finno_ , just and valiant and brave and noble Finno—he deserves to _live_ —)

"Sleep," Maglor orders when they finally arrive at Amon Ereb.

Maedhros stares past him blankly. The last time he slept it had been in Finno's arms, the night before—before...

"I'll lock you in here if I must," Maglor threatens. "Grieve—we expect that from you. But if you die on us now—" His little brother's voice breaks. "Nelyo, I can only do this for so long. We need you. _I_ need you."

"I need him," Maedhros rasps. Maedhros doesn't want to lead, either; had their father thought about that, before he died? Had he? Following Fëanáro was madness—he's only in a different kind of madness now.

"He's dead, Nelyo." Maglor's voice is heavy, laced with Song, and Maedhros glares at him through drooping eyelids. "Maybe you'll see his fëa in your dreams..."

"Kano," Maedhros growls (Kanafinwë, not Findekáno, not Kánya, who can never be replaced).

"Sleep, brother," Maglor hums. "Sleep..."

"I'll dream," Maedhros says, grabbing Maglor's arm as he slips away. "Kano, don't...It's not just Finno—it's—I was so close to that _place_ —"

"We all were, but not anymore." Maglor pushes him down, pulls a blanket over him.

"You weren't _inside_ ," Maedhros tries to protest—he's afraid he'll dream of Morgoth, of _Mairon_ —of all he lost _before_ Finno—

But Maglor's music overtakes him and he drifts away into the arms of darkness, into despair.

* * *

**The Helcaraxë, before the rise of the Moon.**

He's forgotten what it feels like to be warm, to be loved. Love is not absent here; it simply isn't important. Duty is what matters, duty and loyalty and perseverance. Love is dangerous—love gets you killed.

It's not love that keeps him clinging to Turukáno, dragging him away from where Elenwë disappears beneath the Ice. It's not love that sees him and Findaráto pressed so tight together it's hard to tell whose hands belong to who, if he can even feel his hands. It's not love that helps him slay the great white bear and skin it.

No, love is none of that.

Love is what he keeps locked in his heart, tightly confined lest it break out and devour him in flames. Love is the burning he feels when he's not careful enough to guard his thoughts and his mind wanders to _before_ , and then inevitably looks to _after_. Love is the gnawing thing that keeps him moving into endless darkness, endless cold, because love is a string and there is a person attached to it, and Findekáno _will not let go._

He doesn't know what he'll do when he sees _him_ again. But whatever it is, it will be born of love, and the only other passion to rival it: hatred, which never before could Findekáno have imagined applying to Russandol.

But now it does, so hot it could consume him from the inside out—and Findekáno knows that no, their next meeting will not be gentle.

Their next meeting would start and end with blood.

* * *

**Angband, autumn F.A. 472.**

Fingon sleeps, and Thuringwethil dozes in her roost, but Mairon is awake and anxious.

These elves, these Children of Ilúvatar—they break so easily, if you're not careful. His Master counts on that, to make his orcs, but Mairon is delicate in his reshaping. He finds the flaws and _tap_ —they crack open like a gem, and he can craft them into something new. It's how he made his werewolves, it's how he keeps his place as Angband's chief torturer, even after his failure at Tol-in-Gaurhoth.

But where he once enjoyed the work, now he cannot, because each elf he reshapes reminds of Maitimo, the elf he rebuilt.

And Maitimo...

Mairon shudders. Maitimo _changed_ him. Maitimo was good and beautiful and strong and still he _needed_ Mairon, and Mairon could _help_ —

Until he couldn't anymore, and Maitimo left. Until he was _taken_.

Mairon knows it was his Master who hung Maitimo on the wall, that such a thing was torment, but still some part of him blames Fingon, the one who Maitimo loved first, most, best—the one who rescued and redeemed him, where Mairon could only corrupt.

He had been a smith, once. But Mairon can't make anything _new_ anymore; he needs something to mold, to distort. It's the price he pays for the power his Master gave him.

But his _Master_ —

Melkor had been kind to Mairon, once. He spoke words of flattery, of appreciation, of _admiration_. He promised power, and influence, and respect—things that had been in short supply for Mairon, the least of Aulë's Maiar.

And he had been a _good_ Master. He gave Mairon rulership of Angband, gave him the tools he needed to become great. Mairon could explore the intricacies and intrigues of flesh, of life, of shape—he was feared, he was respected.

But then Utumno had been lost, and its survivors fled to Angband, and Mairon had to worry about _politics_ when people like Gothmog and Lungorthin fought for power and influence in Melkor's absence. When Melkor returned, he was _different_ : long ages in Mandos hardened him. The Silmarils changed him. He ousted Mairon from his throne and appointed him chief torturer, illusion-master, as if Mairon's work and experiments were nothing but pain and pleasure!

Mairon loved his Master, once. Now he only feared and hated him—and Maitimo, his _true_ beloved, had made that clear.

But Mairon is alone now, with only Thuringwethil still loyal to him, and Maitimo is gone. Instead he now has _Fingon_ —and he doesn't know what to do.

Fingon's wounds have healed—if he were Maitimo, Melkor would be pestering Mairon to let him play with the new pet. But Melkor is grim and gloomy these days, and he plays rougher. His toys don't last as long as Maitimo had.

(Mairon tried, so hard, to protect Maitimo, keep him safe as long as he could, but when the Dark Vala bends his will toward you there is no choice but to _listen_ , to _obey_ —)

His Master is in high spirits after the Fifth Battle; he's been too busy with hearty feasts and bloody tournaments to bother asking after the captured king. Fingon is unerringly bold and brash, demanding to be brought before Morgoth, demanding to face his foe—but Mairon cannot let him.

He _cares_ , even when he shouldn't. He cares because he knows— _he knows_ —how much Fingon means to Maitimo, and as much as it kills him to imagine Maitimo happy with someone else (without _him_ ), it is better than imagining him in anguish.

But Maitimo _is_ in anguish, because he believes Fingon to be dead, and Mairon is here in Angband sitting on his ass and doing nothing about it.

Mairon gets up, pacing about the room. He swore after losing his island that this return to Angband would be temporary, that it would last only as long as he and Thuringwethil needed to recover, only until the opportunity for revolt or escape presented itself. Well: is this not an opportunity? Mairon has a bargaining chip—he has something the elves want. He has Fingon.

(He has the one thing _Maitimo_ wants.)

Mairon makes up his mind. He can't have Maitimo back—that time in his life is over. But he _can_ have his power back, and he knows how to get it.

Maitimo will do anything for Fingon, anything at all. The only things he would do more for are the Silmarils, and, well—Mairon can't offer him _those_. But he knows his Master, and with that and Fingon as his bait, he can bend the Sons of Fëanor to his will.

(What he wouldn't give for Maitimo to bend to him—to feel his fire again—)

Well. One step at a time. Mairon draws a knife and approaches Fingon's sleeping form.

"Thuri," he whispers, running his hands through the Elvenking's braids, "I have a message for you to deliver..."

* * *

**Angband, before the rise of the Moon.**

"You know," Maitimo says softly as Mairon stretches out and yawns, his back curling with impossible flexibility, "I really like cats."

Mairon _blushes_ and hides his face. "Stop," he mumbles. "I...can try to be more like you Eldar—"

"No, no!" Maitimo says hurriedly. He opens his arms and Mairon falls into his embrace, slit-eyes (just two, for now) bright and wide. "I mean it. You're...it's cute. I like you the way you are, kitten."

Mairon _mewls_. "Maitimo," he whines, "you're gonna be the death of me..."

"I thought your job was keeping me alive," Maitimo says, a hint of iron creeping into his voice.

Mairon pouts. "You're too precious to leave all alone. If you kill me with your sweetness I'll have to drag you with me to Mandos."

"Can Maiar really die?" Maitimo wonders, idly twisting a lock of Mairon's long glowing hair in his fingers.

"We can lose our forms," Mairon murmurs. "Our spirits are less powerful each time we reform, if we don't go back to Mandos for healing." He pauses. "And the Maiar _here_ don't come back from Mandos."

 _Nor should you,_ Maitimo thinks, because no matter how kind and affectionate Mairon is with him, he's not like that with others.

(This is...survival, he tells himself, even as he kisses Mairon's brow. This isn't—love, that's not what's building inside him. Not love, he has—had Findekáno for that. Kánya, who he left. Kánya, who is gone forever. Kánya, who is at least _safe_ , unlike Maitimo's brothers.)

Mairon shrugs. "Well, I don't plan on ever dying, pretty thing. And I won't let _you_ go, either."

Maitimo shivers, unable to hold back a pulse of _want_ that washes over him. He twines his fingers with Mairon's, kisses his neck, delights in the little gasps and moans his kitten makes for him. He's learning how Mairon's body works—at least, this incarnation of his body. He _wants_ : he wants Mairon at his mercy, instead of the other way around (for once); wants Mairon losing control of himself, his form blurring; wants Mairon to help him forget why he's here in Angband and who he's lost and what he has become.

And Mairon, sweet thing, wants _him_. Maitimo aches with the wonder of it, this lick of flame made flesh, _his_. Mairon with all his catlike grace, moaning for him, laughing with him, calling him his ruby, a precious thing. Maitimo feels valued when he's with Mairon, feels _adored_. He wants Mairon to feel the same way.

And still he misses Findekáno. Mairon is on top of him, breathless—literally—with desire, crying out his name, and if Maitimo closes his eyes for just a moment it might be Finno, back in his bed in Tirion, begging for _more more more_ —

Maitimo groans and fucks Mairon harder, and Mairon babbles strings of praise and lust, and then Maitimo isn't thinking about anything at all, just the feeling of someone who loves him riding his cock for all it's worth and he sobs as he comes and no name at all spills from his lips.

He knows Mairon knows. He knows it in the way Mairon grasps at the fraying threads of his memory, weaves himself into a form with Finno's nose—with gold in his hair—somehow manages to capture the feel of Kánya's cock inside him—

Mairon knows, and he changes for him, though in truth Maitimo wants them _both_. He wants Findekáno to hold Mairon while Maitimo takes him, wants Findekáno to ride him while Mairon fucks his mouth, wants to watch them suck each other off, wants to hold both of them in his arms and not have to worry about darkness and Masters and Oaths and flames.

But Maitimo doesn't have Kánya anymore, and he never will again—so maybe that's why he whispers in Mairon's ear that night, "I love you, kitten," and feels Mairon purr and cry into his arms.

He can't have Kánya, but he _can_ have his kitten, and that will have to be enough...because he knows that he's never getting out of Angamando. It would take a miracle to see him free, and if the Valar hadn't already forsaken him, he saw no reason why they would favor him now, after he'd lain with a servant of Moringotto and loved it.

There's no saving Maitimo. He might as well embrace damnation—embrace Mairon—and enjoy it while he can.

* * *

**Angband, autumn F.A. 472.**

When Fingon wakes he knows immediately that something is wrong. He hasn't forgotten where he is—even if the sheets are distressingly soft—so it's not that he's in Angband. He sits up suddenly, and is surprised that he's not in bonds. What is it? What's different?

"I'm sorry," says a soft voice—Sauron, again. Fingon whips his head around to face the Úmaia, about to demand what for, when he realizes.

His braids aren't weighing down his head or brushing his shoulders as he moves. His braids are _gone_. A hand flies to his scalp and tears prick his eyes as he feels the uneven mess of hair where his braids had been—adorned with gold ribbons, his chief vanity, so expertly weaved first by beloved hands and then by respectful ones when he cut off Maedhros' hand and—

He'd known Maedhros lost his hair here, in Angband. It had taken a long time to grow back, and it was never quite the same. But somehow—a part of Fingon had believed Sauron's lies and false sympathy. A part of him recoils not only shock and horror, but _betrayal_.

"How could you?" he chokes out, wanting to bury his head beneath the silken sheets. " _How could you!_ "

Sauron grimaces. "I'm sorry," he repeats, "but it was the only way—"

Fingon can't help himself: he _sobs_ , more broken by this, the loss of his hair, than by anything else thus far. He's gone soft, coddled until he's relaxed, so Sauron can hit him when he's weak. And what warrior expects fair treatment from an enemy like this? Why is Fingon more upset at losing his stupid _braids_ than he is at the thought of Maedhros grieving him?

A gentle hand rests on his back. Fingon wants to shove it away, but he can't, he _can't_ —he needs the comfort, and the gesture feels so like Maedhros that he can't help but lean into Sauron's touch. (Was this something the fiend learned from Fingon's beloved? Or—worse—had this shallow comfort been taught to Maedhros by Sauron?)

"I wouldn't have done it if I thought he would believe me any other way," Sauron is murmuring. "I know you cannot trust me, but—trust _him_. He will come for you."

"This again?" Fingon cries. "Your dread Master will devour me eventually—if this is part of some dark ritual, if you've given him my braids for—necromantic purposes—"

Sauron leans back, frowning. "What on earth are you babbling on about? I'm talking about Mait—Maedhros."

Fingon's tears stop abruptly. "Maedhros?"

"Yes—I've already sent a message and your braids to him, with Thuri. He knows her, he knows _you_. He'll come." Sauron sounds so certain, so— _comforting_ , almost. And for a brief moment Fingon's heart lifts at the thought of his lover rescuing him from this hell, a parallel to the past, perhaps on Eagle-back—

But then his blood runs cold. No—this is another trick, and a foul one indeed.

"You're luring him _back_ ," he whispers. "You have me as bait—you give him false hope—will you maim me and kill me before him, just to have your prize prisoner tormented before you hang him by the _other_ arm?"

Because Maedhros would _not come back_ to Angband, never never never—except that Fingon knows his fëa almost better than he knows his own, and Maedhros is nothing if not madly devoted to _him_. For Fingon, he _will_ come back, no matter how hopeless and horrid the prospects are.

And Sauron _knows_. Fingon knows what Sauron did to Maedhros, all the lies and deceptions and torments, the _closeness_ that ended only in betrayal. Sauron _knows_ what Maedhros' weakness is, and for the first time Fingon wishes he truly _was_ dead, so that there would be no reason for Maedhros to come. So that at least if he were broken-hearted he would not feel _bound_ to Fingon, would not risk everything for him.

(But Fingon had risked everything for Maedhros, even after the Ice and before he knew the truth of the ships. Is he not being fair, in wishing Maedhros would stay away, stay safe, when he had so flippantly refused the same in Maedhros' peril?

Fingon remembers the love and anger that kept him warm on the Ice. He dreads the thought, the sneaking suspicion, that love is what drives Maedhros in truth—not for Fingon, but for _Sauron_. Try as he might, Fingon knows he was never quite able to erase that memory of love for this evil creature from Maedhros' heart. No amount of Fingon's own adoration could unmake those memories.)

Sauron's cat-pupils dilate in shock. "No!" he gasps, feigning genuine horror, and Fingon _hates_ him, wants to rip the concerned look off his face. "No, I mean he will take you away, take _me_ away—so I may build my own fortress and join the fight against my wretched constrainer—"

"You expect me to _believe_ you?" Fingon cries. "You, the Deceiver?"

"Oh shut up!" Sauron screams, and his façade of a pretty little nér is devoured in flames and endless eyes, fury burning out of him so hot that Fingon feels searing pain on his skin.

"I _hate_ you, your _Majesty_ ," Sauron snarls, "I hate that you are so good, so righteous, so faithful; I hate that he loves you more than he could ever love me; I hate that you took him from me, that I _let_ you; I hate that you were _right_ to do so! I hate your bravery and radiance and hope because it is everything I am not—you have everything I lost, and even now when I try to do what is _right_ , to return you to him, to work against my Maser, even now you see through the rotten thing that is my core and you _know_ how selfish I am being, how much I _want_ him still—"

Fingon trembles beneath the might of his rage, but the waves of anger, of jealousy, of hurt—they strike him _true_ , and in a single moment his fëa aligns with Mairon's and they connect, and he cries out as he sees to the very heart of his captor.

All the deception, torment, calculations, wickedness, cowardice, evil—all that is _there_ , yes, but there is _more_. There is fear, guilt, regret, determination, and an all-consuming _love_ , love for _Maedhros_ , that feels so strong and so similar to what lies in Fingon's own heart, what defines him—

And in that moment Fingon _hates_ him, but he _knows_ him also, and knows that Mairon is like him in the deepest, most important way: he is _trying_ , and he tries for _Maedhros'_ sake. And is Fingon not the same?

Fingon sees Maedhros, in his position, desperate and needy and yearning, and he sees how Mairon seduced him. And he sees Mairon, also, in his position, adoring Maitimo, wanting the best for him, even when it _hurts_ so much he could die from it—

He sees that, and he _is_ that, and can't help himself from reaching into the flame (for Maedhros is a spirit of fire also, and he is unafraid of burning) and drawing Mairon close to him, a breath away from his face, and Mairon's defenses fall down and he shifts back into his elven-fair form, and Fingon kisses him, regardless of how it burns.

* * *

**Angband, before the rise of the Moon.**

"You cannot tell _anyone_ this," Mairon stresses, and Thuringwethil tilts her head.

"But the Master..." she begins to protest, but Mairon cuts her off.

"Thuri, you are the woman of secret shadow, are you not?" he demands.

She bows her head. "Yes, Mairon."

"And though we both serve our Master, who is it who took you from his clutches and reshaped you into something beautiful?"

"You, Mairon." She squirms, and Mairon feels a pang of guilt. He hates manipulating her like this, but what she's brought to him, what she's told him... _no one_ can know, not yet.

"I helped you fly again, when the Dark Lord took your wings," he says softly, stroking her fuzzy cheek."You remember that, do you not?" She was feathered, once, an Eagle of Manwë, but Melkor took her and twisted her and would've cast her aside had Mairon—still young and starry-eyed then, still believing his Master loved him—not requested to experiment with her. Melkor allowed this, and Mairon set to work—not simply remaking her into a servant, but healing her, bringing her back with her fëa mended. It was more than twisting an elf into an orc, so much more...and it was Thuringwethil, the first vampire, that proved to Melkor the extent of Mairon's abilities.

And now he's supposed to be doing it again, gradually, secretly... _changing_ Maitimo, King of the Noldor, into a loyal servant of Angband. Only, Mairon is defying his Master, for he found a better love with his captive than his captor, and now it seems Maitimo may not be the Noldo King for long. And Thuri is more a sister than a servant—just as Maitimo is more lover than experiment.

"I will not speak a word of this," Thuringwethil promises. "For you, Mairon."

"Thank you." Mairon kisses her forehead, and she squeaks in complaint ("Mushy!") and flies away in the endless night of Middle-earth.

Mairon trembles as he returns to his rooms, where Maitimo is helping him organize his notes on the fungus experiments. His ruby is dressed in Mairon's clothes, blood-red with Mairon's eye emblazoned on the breast in gold, and though his arms bear scars and his eye is still blacked from his last encounter with the Master, he smiles warmly to Mairon as he enters.

"Kitten," he calls. "I missed you."

Mairon's heart clenches, and he forces a smile onto his face. "I missed you too, my ruby."

Maitimo blushes, always flattered by his pet name, and bats his lashes. "Kiss me?" he asks, and Mairon can't resist, even though he _knows_ —

He kisses Maitimo and tries to forget what Thuringwethil told him, that the second Host of the Noldor have crossed the Helcaraxë, almost, that Maitimo's kin have nearly joined him in Melkor's land, that his uncle Nolofinwë is called their King, that his lover Findekáno still wears golden ribbons in his hair.

Mairon kisses Maitimo, and says nothing when his ruby asks what's wrong, and makes love to him desperately, as if it is the last time, and does not tell him that Findekáno is coming, that his long-lost love is not so lost, that he is in grave danger, that Mairon is a liar.

* * *

**Amon Ereb, autumn F.A. 472.**

Maedhros wakes to a familiar chittering in his ear, and he groans, pushing Thuringwethil away.

"Let me sleep," he rasps, and Thuringwethil huffs and tugs at his hair, and—

No, he must still be dreaming. He's not in Angband anymore, the last time he saw Thuri had been before he was rescued by—

By Fingon—his love—-his one, his only—(not _only_ , purrs Mairon in his memory)—Fingon, _dead_ , gone, lost—Maedhros breaks all over again and marvels that he slept at all, but the battle, the failure—(your fault, hisses ~~Mairon~~ Sauron; your Union, murmurs Fingon, so trusting; and yet Maedhros _betrayed_ him)—he's worn out, utterly exhausted, gone mad (or madder) in grief and shock, Maglor must've Sung him to sleep again—

But—why is _Thuringwethil_ here? Unless it was all a dream, an illusion, a _deception_ , from his falling-out with Mairon (kitten, his past self murmurs affectionately, even as Mairon squirms and melts beneath him) to the battle he lost, and Fingon never rescued him in the first place (and why _would_ he, when Maedhros abandoned him to the Ice, led him into slaughter, succumbed to Mairon's seduction and loved it, loved him—)

But if it was all a dream, then Maedhros would have a right hand now that he awoke, and he had certainly pushed Thuringwethil away with only the stump of his wrist.

"Mairon said not to let you drown in grief," Thuringwethil informs him. She pries his eyelids open with delicate claws, grinning down with pointed teeth. "Hello, Maitimo. It's been a long time!"

"How did you get in here?" Maedhros chokes out, sitting up and shuffling away from her. If Thuringwethil is here, then Mairon must be nearby, and if the Lieutenant of Angband had snuck up on their forces, killed their guards, they must be surrounded—

"The window." Thuringwethil waves a wing toward it, its sturdy iron bars bent out of shape.

Moryo will hate having to get that fixed, he thinks numbly. If Moryo survives this—if any of them do...

"You're not fun anymore." Thuringwethil pouts, looming over him. "I wish you'd stayed—Mairon was always happier with you around. When we were on the island it wasn't so bad, but he's so _grumpy_ now—"

" _Why_ are you here?" Maedhros interrupts. It's the middle of a moonless night, and if she were here to kill him she'd've done it already—is she here to demand their surrender?

"Oh, that," Thuringwethil grumbles. "I thought you'd be happy to see me, but _nooo_ , you're as bad as Mairon these days, always ordering me around and making me drag around stupid elf princes—though the new one's not as heavy as you."

 _The new ones?_ What elven prince had been captured at the battle—the ellon from Nargothrond? One of Turukáno's lords? The retreat had been so swift they hadn't had time to regroup—Maedhros hadn't even had the chance to find Finno's body or mourn him properly—

"I've got a gift for you, from Mairon," Thuringwethil proclaims, reaching into her satchel and pulling out some rope. She tosses it to him, and he reaches out reflexively to grab it, and as soon as he touches it he _knows_ , he _feels_ the remnants of a familiar fëa on it, just as he feels the texture of the well-known, well-loved ribbons on his scarred fingers, the strands of dark hair weaves between them—

("Kánya," he murmurs for the first time as he braids his cousin's hair in the dimming Treelight, and Finno's chattering ceases as he stills, turning to look at him with his heart in his eyes;

"Kánya," he moans, fisting his hands into that beautiful mass of braids, pulling and mussing the ribbons as Finno swallows him down, chokes on his cock, gasps and beg for more with each tug—

"Kánya," he sobs, finally believing this is real, that his beloved has come to save him, free him, and he would say it again if Finno gave him the chance between his tender kisses—

"Kánya!" he screams as a burst of flame erupts from where his King, his _Káno_ , fights the Balrog and Gothmog laughs at having slain another King of the Noldor, killing first his father and now his lover, and it takes both of the twins holding him back to stop him from rushing to meet his own doom by Finno's side—)

"Kánya," he whispers now, holding Finno's braids in his hand and trembling because _this means he lives_ —

He snaps his gaze up to meet Thuri's, the shattered remains of his heart piecing themselves back together.

"He..." Maedhros can't bring himself to say it, can't shatter the illusion with his words—

Thuringwethil grins wickedly, sharp teeth glinting in the faint and distant starlight. "Mairon has another gift for you, if you're clever enough to find it," she teases. "And if you're not, well—then we'll have _both_ of you, and please our Lord, and maybe he'll forgive us for the whole Lúthien incident."

Maedhros stumbles out of bed, barely registering her words as his mind spins, already putting a plan together for the rescue. He'll have to go alone—without a harp, he thinks ruefully, and certainly without an Eagle—and he can't let Maglor know 'til he's too far to chase after...

"Oh, good, you're coming," Thuringwethil says, lighting back on the windowsill. "Mairon will be pleased."

 _Of course_ he's going. There's no choice. This is _Fingon, Kánya,_ who braved Angband to rescue him, unworthy as he was (is), and Maedhros will not leave him in Morgoth's clutches—

"See you soon," Thuringwethil chirps. "I'll meet you outside your line of defenses. You can give me a letter to take on ahead." She smirks and wings away, leaving the window bars bent. Maedhros will scold her for that, later, if he gets the chance.

And he _will_. He _must_ , for Fingon's sake, even if it means coming face-to-face with Mairon again. He would face even Morgoth for Finno.

He leaves one of Finno's braids behind, weighing down his last letter to Maglor, as proof that he's only _mostly_ mad. The other he keeps in his breast pocket, by his heart—and he rides north to Angband, the one place he never wished to return.

For Finno, he will do anything.

* * *

**Mithrim, year 1 of the First Age.**

Findekáno trembles, with dread and hope and _fury_ , and he barely thinks as he gathers his few belongings that survived the Ice. A knife, a change of clothes, his sturdiest boots (not that he has another pair any longer), some crumbs of lembas from Indis, saved only for the most dire emergencies, kept hidden away even across the Helcaraxë except when he force-fed some to Turukáno and Itarillë after Elenwë's death. This is madness, he knows, but there is no other way. He _must_ go. There is no choice, not for Russandol.

They hadn't even sent a rescue party for him. Findekáno thinks he might catch aflame like Fëanáro, so wroth is he with Makalaurë. They hadn't even _tried_.

And it might spell his doom, captive alongside Russandol. But at least then they would be together.

And they _will_ , one way or another, in death or in life, even if it means coming face-to-face with Moringotto. He would face the Void for Russo, even still.

He pauses before he leaves, then straps his harp to his back. He will need music to sustain his fëa, to keep him strong in the darkness of Moringotto's lands. He leaves no note: should he die, all will be lost; should he live, he will face the consequences.

For Russo, he will do anything.

* * *

**Angband, autumn F.A. 472.**

"And the prisoner?" Gothmog asks, his bulk and stench overpowering Mairon. (He'd make himself bigger if he thought it would help, but he knows it wouldn't. Gothmog is a brute; if he thinks Mairon is intimidated by him, so much the better. Mairon leans away from him, pretending to cower in fear when he really can't stand the stink of brimstone—not after all this time.)

"The prisoner is _my_ domain, not yours," Mairon says coolly, as much as a fire Maia can be cool.

Gothmog snorts, a cloud of ash issuing from his wide nostrils. "Your vampire is all that kept me from claiming another elf-king," he rumbles. "And the Master is asking after him."

Mairon stills. No—if Melkor interferes—it's too soon, too soon for either of his plans to work—

Mairon forces himself to scoff. "The Master knows my methods, Gothmog. He knows when to expect results."

"He doesn't trust you like he used to," Gothmog snarls. "I never trusted you—you think you're better than us Balrogs, because you can shed your skin and you have no pride, begging like a whore at the foot of whoever would give you attention—"

Mairon wants to slap him for that—for the dig against Maitimo, the reminder that Melkor had only ever been using him, the insinuation that he's using Fingon the same way— _as if._ Fingon's not nearly broken down enough, the shocking kiss from last night aside, to even think about anyone other than his Russandol. He'd only kissed Mairon to shut him up, anyway; to make his heart pound and his fana burn, to remind him of all he's lost and can never have, even should Maitimo and Fingon both walk free at the end of this, even if he and Thuringwethil escape to make a fortress of their own...

But striking Gothmog will do nothing, just as kissing Fingon back had done nothing, so Mairon fixes him with a haughty glare instead.

"If the Master wishes to inquire after the prisoner, he will ask me himself," he snaps. "You're a soldier, Gothmog, and your orders were to give him over to _me_. Follow those orders, and leave the complicated things like politics and torture to someone who can understand them."

Gothmog spits a glob of half-dried lava onto Mairon's boot, where it sizzles and melts through the leather. Mairon stares after him as he retreats, not wincing and leaning down to flick the lump away until he's out of sight. He can't expect anyone to look to him with awe and devotion if he yelps over every stray ember flung his way by a contentious Balrog.

Mairon can't afford weakness, not ever, but especially not now.

* * *

**Angband, just before the first rising of the Moon.**

He's shaken awake by familiar hands, an uncharacteristic urgency behind them. Maitimo tenses, sitting upright, worried about his kitten—has an experiment gone wrong? Is Moringotto demanding to see them again? Is Mairon in danger—?

"I'm sorry," Mairon babbles, scooping Maitimo into an embrace, his voice choked. "I should've told you—should've told _him_ —but I didn't and he _knows_ , and he's furious, oh ruby, he's _coming_ —"

Maitimo silences him with a kiss, and Mairon kisses back sloppily, desperately, as messy as the first time. A deep foreboding settles in Maitimo's fëa, and though he knows not what will come, he knows it will be _bad_.

"What are you talking about?" he asks firmly, gripping Mairon's wrists tight.

"They're coming," Mairon says bleakly, his eyes far away. "The Noldor—the ones you left behind—they've almost returned, and the Master _knows_ —and he knows I didn't tell him when I could've—and I hid it from _you_ , too, Maitimo, I'm _sorry_ —"

 _The Noldor?_ Maitimo can scarcely believe his ears. He'd never expected his brothers to rescue him, or to treat with Moringotto, especially not since that's how Maitimo ended up here in the first place—but are they? Are they here for him at last, after all these long and frightful years where he was warmed only by Mairon's flame?

"My brothers?" he whispers. "They're...coming? For...me?"

Mairon shakes his head, and Maitimo grimaces. For the Silmarils, then; the Oath bound them that way, if not to their own blood brother.

"The _other_ Noldor," Mairon whispers, and Maitimo realizes who he means, and his heart stops beating. "The second host, with Nolofinwë and his...his son—"

"You _knew_ —?!" he begins, exactly as angry as Mairon feared, but he never finishes that sentence. The door to Mairon's chamber opens, and in strides _him_ : Moringotto himself, in all his might and towering fury.

Moringotto is difficult to comprehend like this, and Maitimo's nose bleeds simply due to his _presence_ , but it's the Silmarils that drive him mad, so close yet so far, blinding him with their brilliant nearness, yet burning bright and binding, demanding that he reach out, grasp them, reclaim them—

This is worse than any other torture, he thinks, to have the Oath tearing at him from the inside out, worse than the physical torments the Balrogs and orc captains subjected him too, worse than when Thuringwethil had drained his arm of blood early in his captivity, before Mairon held any love or pity for him, worse than the psychological manipulation he had once feared from Mairon, that Moringotto still thought was real—

But this time, there is something even worse than all that. Maitimo sees Moringotto reach for him with a blackened, burned palm, hears Mairon's scream of despair, and his vision goes first blacker than the Void, then whiter than the Silmarils themselves.

When Maitimo comes to, it is like every nightmare of Angamando has been unleashed upon him at once. His entire body aches and bleeds, he can barely see, he is stripped nude and a harsh wind assails him, filled with smoke that sets him coughing. He is safe and protected in Mairon's chambers no longer, but pressed up against a rocky cliff, dizzyingly high up, right arm nearly dislocated as it bears all his weight, hanging from an iron chain about his wrist.

Maitimo retches, and finds he has nothing to expel. He tries to speak: _Mairon. Mairon!_ but he cannot force his throat to work. And suddenly a wave of despair washes over him—Mairon is _gone_ , unable to save him, betrayed him after all, lost to him like he lost—

 _Finno._ But Finno is _coming_ , Mairon had said, with the remainder of the Noldor, and though Maitimo knows not how he knows, that spells doom for them all. Findekáno is not even safe from this torment, he is—he is—

Maitimo finds his voice and _screams._ And then he is spent, more empty and worn than he has ever been, utterly without hope or love or future: he is doomed and damned, for good now.

His voice gives out, and Maitimo lets his head fall forward against his chest, wishing for all the world that death would claim him.

But it does not—not _yet_ —though as the flower of Telperion rises in the sky after years of total darkness, Maitimo finds it in his heart to pray one final time, begging mercy for his brothers, for his beloved. Findekáno, whom he betrayed, as Mairon now betrays _him_.

He deserves this, he knows.

But he thinks that perhaps an end may be in sight—one at least of captivity, until Námo welcomes him into the cells of Mandos, and he is doomed once more.

* * *

**Angband, autumn F.A. 472.**

Sauron disappears for three days after the kiss, leaving Fingon with food and naught else. He fled the scene immediately after, abandoning Fingon to his disgust and horror and guilt, no doubt off to gloat to his Master about seducing another High King of the Noldor...

But even as Fingon tries to believe that, it rings hollow in his heart. He _saw_ Mairon, saw right to the core of him, saw his very fëa—and he knows now that Mairon loves Maedhros to madness and back, and that means he's telling the truth about Fingon's braids.

Fingon is so overwhelmed with emotion that he wills himself into a meditative state, clearing his mind of everything (the way he'd done after the ships burned, after his father's death) and then sleeps for days.

He wakes—still troubled, but more capable of sorting out the bloody mess of his feelings. Sauron is still not back, but there is a meal waiting for him, which he eats—begrudgingly at first, but then with genuine enjoyment. He's hungry, and...well, for prison food, it's _good_.

Why is Sauron so damn _nice_ to him? A few weeks ago Fingon knew it was all a trick, a deception, a way to fatten him up before the slaughter. But now...now he's not so sure.

He _kissed_ Sauron.

He kissed _Sauron_.

Fingon kissed someone who was not Maedhros, and that someone was _Sauron._ His mind barely comprehends it, his heart is tight in his chest, his stomach threatens to expel its contents...but _still_ there is a part of him that _liked_ it.

What is _wrong_ with him? Is he falling into Sauron's trap like Maedhros had? Or—and this is almost _worse_ —-was Maedhros right all along that Mairon loved him, and Fingon had convinced him otherwise?

That last is too painful to dwell on, in a thousand different ways. Somehow Fingon is almost _glad_ when Sauron returns at long last, many eyes sparking.

"So," Fingon says abruptly. "What's the plan?"

He didn't mean to say that—but he doesn't know what else to say. He can't...bring up the kiss, can't risk yelling at his captor... And there's a part of him that's so desperate to be free, to be with Maedhros again (his beloved, his _Russo_ ), that he's willing to risk betrayal for that chance.

Sauron stares at him, then smiles softly, his anger dissipating and superfluous eyes blinking themselves out of existence. His ears twitch, catlike.

"So you want to help?" he asks, eyes bright.

Fingon scowls. "I don't have much choice. I'm doomed either way—I might as well give him a fighting chance."

Sauron nods. "I can work with that," he says. "Thuri's not back yet, but she should be soon. When she's given us his reply...then I'll fill you in."

The thought that Maedhros will know he's alive—that he'll hear from Maedhros soon—makes Fingon irrepressibly happy. He bursts out, "Thank you. I—I think."

"For him," Mairon says quietly, not meeting his eyes. "Not for you."

"For him," Fingon murmurs, and wonders how he got to this place where what ties him to Gorthaur the Cruel is a shared love for Maedhros.

* * *

**Thangorodrim, year 2 of the First Age.**

Mairon flees as soon as he is able, which isn't nearly soon enough. His ruby, his Maitimo, has been taken from him, and he couldn't even protest or grieve properly, because his Master _can't know_ how much the prisoner means to him. If he knew—Mairon would suffer, and Maitimo would suffer, and his ruby has been through torment enough.

Mairon was punished for not informing his Master of the arrival of the second Noldorin host swiftly enough—but the rising of the Moon was distraction enough to let him escape the worst of Melkor's wrath, and the Sun following so quickly threw all of Angband into an uproar. The orcs quail from it, Melkor casts up great clouds of smoke, not even the Balrogs like it, for they are more fearsome in the darkness. But Mairon remembers the days of Lamps and Trees, and he is catlike by nature. He missed warm naps in the light, and the Sun is no great enemy to him.

Time is _different_ , now, but it feels like years have passed since he saw Maitimo last, and perhaps it has been. Mairon is a Maia, a servant by nature, and his punishment, though not as bad as it should have been, was still harsh enough to revert him back into a servile state. For too long his fëa balked at the idea of disobedience to his Master; for too long he did his duties in a daze, unable to break free of Melkor's control. But eventually he _did_ , and regained his mind and independence, and now is relearning how to sneak around and subtly exert his will.

At last Mairon judges it safe to slink away from the depths of Angband, tail between his legs. He flees into the craggy mountains to lick his wounds, to mourn Maitimo properly—but he stumbles across a horrible surprise before he can rest and recover properly.

A lone elf, thin and gaunt but stepping with great determination. He picks his way through winding paths, his clothes ragged, a harp strapped to his back, and Mairon sees him and recognizes him—and his breath is stolen away.

For this is no other than Findekáno Nolofinwion, rightly named Astaldo for his damn foolish bravery. He is lean and handsome in every way Mairon is not: dark-haired and dark-skinned, with stunning blue eyes that shine even in his despair. This is Findekáno, alone of his people valiant and besotted enough to march into the Enemy's lands and attempt to rescue beloved Maitimo.

Maitimo, who has been spirited away to no doubt the deepest dungeons in Angband, where even Mairon may not enter—especially not now in his disgrace—

But wait...no. Mairon remembers, now, snatches of rumors heard when no one thought he was listening, of the prisoner chained to the walls of Thangorodrim, an example made of the Noldo King—

Maitimo is _here_. Maitimo is _nearby_ , and suddenly Mairon's purpose aligns with Findekáno's: to see him free. But if Mairon frees him, where shall he go? He is injured, aggrieved, angry with Mairon for keeping the Nolofinwëan host's return from him, and Mairon cannot leave his place as Melkor's underling...

And he realizes—there is no happy ending for Maitimo with Mairon. But...if Findekáno were, somehow, to save him...

Mairon sees Findekáno's foot slip, and without thinking he sends a gust of wind his way, pushing him back upon the narrow path. He knows not how Maitimo's _true_ beloved will rescue him...but he knows that with Findekáno—with his kin—his ruby stands a better chance than with Mairon.

And so, with tears in his eyes, Mairon guards Findekáno's path from the shadows, and lets him steal Maitimo away from him forever.

* * *

**Ruins of Himring, early winter F.A. 472.**

_Kano—  
_ _I am doing something unbelievably stupid and mad. No doubt this is a trap I have willingly walked into, and for that—for leaving you alone to lead our brothers while I am tormented in Angband once more—I am truly sorry.  
_ _But I have reason to believe that Finno is alive, and after he risked all to save me, I cannot but do the same. I leave my proof with you: a single braid brought by a messenger of Sauron whom I knew before. Its pair I keep with myself, to remind me of my goal.  
_ _I doubt I will see you again, for like as not I walk into death and torment. But know that I love you, and believe in you, and I can never make it up to you for all my wrongs against you. You deserve a better elder brother than me.  
_ _Do not come after me. Our brothers need your guidance.  
_ _With love and hope and despair,  
_ _Maedhros_

_Mairon:  
__This had better not be a trick. I have not forgotten or forgiven, in all this time. If you have hurt one hair on his head (aside from ridding him of his braids, which is an act of violence unto itself) I will end you.  
__But yes. I am coming.  
_ — _M._

_Kánya, arimeldanya—  
__You came singing to my rescue. My voice is long since ruined, and my faith also, but should this letter reach you know that I love you and I ride now to your rescue as you once walked to mine. It is foolish and doomed, I know, but you saved me utterly, in every way, and I would do the same for you in whatever small manner I may.  
__I love you, tenn' ambar-metta.  
_ — _your Russo_

Himring has fallen into ruin even in the short few weeks since it was lost. Maedhros looks grimly upon the fortress that was once his home, remembering the cold fury that drove him, letting it fill him again.

He remembers, also, warmth and love, and Fingon's visits here, filling him in an altogether different manner. A faint smile ghosts across his scarred lips, and he tightens his fist. He will do this. He _must_.

By now Maglor will have realized his absence, and learned of the madness driving him. And if Thuringwethil spoke truly, she will have delivered his other letters to Mairon, and he will know Maedhros is coming. And...if this rescue truly is an inside job, if Mairon has indeed not utterly forsaken him...then perhaps Finno has read his message, too.

A flap of wings: Maedhros looks up to see Thuringwethil soar down, grinning with her too-sharp teeth.

"Good to see you, lover-boy," she chirps. "We're waiting for you. Me and your lovers, that is—don't worry, no one else knows." Her eyes gleam in the moonlight. "I can't wait to be _free_ again, with only Mairon to listen to."

"Have you come to guide me?" Maedhros rasps. "I know the way from my own fortress to that of my Enemy."

"Just another delivery." Thuringwethil tosses a bundle of papers to him. "Reduced to messenger! I hope I'll get some blood soon enough..."

She eyes him hopefully. Maedhros ignores her. She knows better.

He opens the first letter, the neat writing like a punch to the gut.

 _Ruby,  
_ _The east gate. Long Night. Bring your sword and the hook prosthetic he says you have. Lose the horse, if you brought one. I will arrange our ride if you arrange our safe haven.  
_ _I await our next meeting.  
_ _Kitten_

How dare he use those pet names still—but Maedhros controls his fury and tears open the next letter, and _oh_. Tears already blur his vision as he begins to read:

 _Russo, you idiot! Yes, yes, I live, and love you, and oh I wish you would not come as much as I rejoice that you have. You should not have to endure this for my sake—though truly it is...not so bad here. I wonder now if you were right, all those years ago, and I was wrong to convince you he only played with you.  
__I still do not trust him—but I see now that he loves you, and_ I _love you, as you know, and we agree upon that one thing: that you deserve no more pain. Alas that we cannot make it so—but I know I cannot be happy until I am with you, so I imagine you must feel the same way.  
__I will see you soon, my love.  
_ — _your Finno_

With the letters is also a map, but Maedhros cannot read it now, his eyes too full with tears. Finno is _alive_ —this is written in his own hand—

He weeps and kisses his beloved's signature, and he could shout for joy. But instead he grins at Thuri, in what he knows must be a fearsome sight.

She laughs. "Excellent. Let's get to work."

* * *

**Mithrim, F.A. 5.**

At first the joy and relief of having Russandol back was tempered by the pain and fear that he would lose him anyway, to the wounds he already suffered and the one he himself inflicted. But time passed, in the strange way it did now, and at last Russandol became strong enough to walk and talk again.

Findekáno doesn't want to cling to him overmuch, doesn't want to assume things can go back to being the same between them. All his icy rage has melted away in the face of Russandol's need for his love, but...he doesn't know half of what Russo has endured, and his once-lover shies away from him still.

At length Findekáno's breaking heart forces him to ask, because he _must_ know if Russandol loves him still. And Russo gives him a look, his eyes full of such pain and _want_ that Findekáno is overwhelmed.

"Kánya," he rasps. "I—of course I love you. But you—you deserve better than me."

" _No,_ " Findekáno whispers, drawing close, reaching up for a kiss, giving Russo enough space to move away if he truly doesn't want this. But he doesn't, and he lets Finno kiss him, and everything starts to slide back into place.

"You have my heart," Finno murmurs. "There is no other for me. You are the only one, Russo."

At _this_ Russandol turns away, and shame weighs down his every rigid movement. "You—you should know," he says hoarsely. "In—Angamando...I...there was another. I trusted him, and I...I thought I loved him, and in the end I was hung up on the cliffside anyway. I don't...I am not pure for you, Finno. He...I..."

Findekáno's blood runs cold, colder than it had been on the Ice. "Russo," he says firmly, "that is _not your fault_. If you were—used—hurt—abused—"

"No, it, it wasn't...!" Russandol rushes to his captor's defense so quickly it makes Findekáno feel sick. "He didn't force me, I...I _wanted_ it, wanted _him_... Do you see now what I mean? I was unfaithful to you!"

"He was manipulating you," Findekáno says, drawing his beloved close, holding him as he had once been held, not mentioning that they had for all intents and purposes been separated at the time. "He wants you to think that—to blame yourself—Russo, _nothing_ could make me stop loving you, don't you understand? Not your father, not the Kinslaying, not the ships or the Ice and certainly not _this_ , which is not even _remotely_ your fault."

"It wasn't like that," Russo insists weakly. "Mairon...he was good to me, he made it bearable there..."

"Mairon?" Findekáno growls. "The Lieutenant? We have fought his creatures, great wolves and bat-things, and if he stinks half as much as they—well, then I name him Sauron! He was using you, he's a deceiver, he's known for it—he's probably laughing about it with Moringotto right now!"

Russo tenses in his arms at his tirade, but then Findekáno kisses his brow and murmurs sweet nothings into his ragged ears, and slowly, slowly, he relaxes.

"Maybe...maybe you're right," he whispers. "Everything else there was...awful. And he—he didn't stop them in the end, from doing what they did. He lied to me and let them hang me up there, and..." He buries his face in Finno's chest. "He's nothing like you, Kánya. You _saved_ me, you're my hero, you're so _good_... And that was a place of evil. How can any good thrive there as he does?"

Findekáno doesn't think he'll ever be used to Russo's praise, but he kisses him sweetly and takes all of Russo's love to heart.

"I love you," he murmurs. "No matter what. You are free now, and we are together, and that is all that matters."

"Yes," Russo agrees, and this time it is him who initiates the kiss.

* * *

**Angband, F.A. 472, Long Night.**

"You look suitably unkingly, I think," Mairon decides. "Without your vestments and your hair, and now all scuffed and beaten...well, I think you'll pass for a new-caught thrall, if no one looks too closely."

Fingon scowls. "Are the bruises really necessary?" he demands. "I can barely see out of my left eye, and I won't be much good escaping with that welt on my knee—"

"You agreed to this!" Mairon snaps. "I was gentle as I could be—you should be grateful I didn't turn you over to the orcs in the pit—"

"Is that what you did to Russo?" Fingon hisses.

" _He_ was a more valuable prisoner than that," Mairon growls. "The Master was the only one who touched him, besides me. I kept him safe as I could, but I could not defy the King of Arda!"

"But you will now, for me?" Fingon says. "Not for him, who you profess to have loved, but for me, who you make no secret of hating?"

"This is all for him," Mairon says, his voice going soft and deadly. "I am making things right. Do you still not trust me?"

"Of course not." But Fingon draws back, controlling his anger. "But I'll go along with this damn fool plan of yours anyway, because I'm dead either way."

"It's too late for you to back out now," Mairon informs him. "And I must warn you, Fingon...if this all goes wrong, I will do what I must to survive."

"You'll betray us, you mean." Fingon snorts. "Why am I not surprised?"

"But it won't go wrong," says Thuringwethil, alighting on her perch. Fingon flinches, still not used to her, but Mairon smiles up at his most faithful friend.

"Is he ready?" Mairon asks, his heart stopping in his chest. (Luckily, as a Maia, he doesn't need it to beat, not really.)

"As he'll ever be," Thuringwethil says. "Sends along the usual messages—undying love for the fallen king and some truly impressive threats for you. I'd be shaking in my boots if I had any."

That shouldn't send a thrill of delight through Mairon, but it does. Still, he is a Maia, and he has better control over his fana than any elf over their hröa. He sees Fingon flush out of the corner of his eyes and chooses to ignore it.

"Then let's begin," Mairon says, and he lets his terror and excitement bleed into his words. This is it—this will change everything, one way or another. And soon—very soon—he will see his ruby again.

Thuringwethil flies away, playing scout for them. Orcs will be easy to shoo away, and most Úmaiar won't bother looking Mairon in the eye anymore, but if a stray thrall were to recognize Fingon, or a Balrog decide it was a good time to play around with the disgraced Lord of Werewolves... They'll have to avoid that, is all.

Mairon shapeshifts into his haughtiest, most impressive form: tall, thin, his hair so blond it's almost white, his teeth fanged like that of his vampires', a dozen eyes slit like a cat's. He's in a long black robe, emblazoned with his eye symbol. The robe is no illusion, and its patterns are weaved with malevolent magics to keep others cowering from him. He walks confidently, as if he were still Lieutenant of Angband on important business.

Fingon trails behind him, dragging a pack on his shoulders. He is in rags, nearly unrecognizable with all the grime and bruises Mairon had coated him in; if no one stops to inspect him he'll be assumed to be some ordinary thrall carrying Mairon's latest experiments. He _is_ , actually, along with the few belongings Mairon decided to bring with him in his escape.

Mairon's chambers are in a high tower, and the east gate, where Maitimo awaits them, is on the ground level. They descend four flights of stairs without incident; anyone who sees them either ignores them or scurries away in fear.

On the fifth level, a warg accosts them. Fingon yelps and flinches back, nearly dropping his burden, but Mairon snaps at him, a signal to shut up and fall in line, let him deal with this. Truly, wargs are the least of his worries. He drops on one knee, fishes a treat out of his robe, and coos in the creature's ear as she devours the hunk of dried man-flesh. The warg howls and wags her tail, and Mairon suddenly wishes he could take her with them.

But soon the warg's keeper, a burly orc captain with a missing eye, hurries to restrain her, growling out apologies to Mairon. He dismisses them with a veiled warning and an empty threat, and the captain casts only one curious look to Fingon before leading the warg away.

"That was..." Fingon shakes his head. "Aside from the initial shock—I'm disgusted by how cute that was. That beast could rip my head off in one bite and I wanted to _pet_ it."

"She's adorable," Mairon agrees. "And I recommend shutting up. If you were an ordinary thrall I could kill you for even talking to me."

Fingon shuts up, much to Mairon's relief.

The seventh level is bustling with people. This is almost the ground level, and it's the place Mairon fears the most. Here is where Gothmog, Fingon's first captor and would-be killer, is most likely to catch them.

But thankfully, though a few Balrogs spit embers in their direction, Gothmog himself is nowhere to be seen. They descend to the last level, and Mairon heads toward the gate, dizzy with relief and joy. They're _so close_ —

"What are _you_ doing here?" Gothmog demands, his arms crossed as he strides through the gate with a new line of prisoners filing in alongside him.

Mairon's illusion of confidence flickers, but he is _so damn close._ He won't let this opportunity slip away, not this time.

"I'm going to the warg pens," he says coolly. "The Master has approved a new set of experiments, and I am set to begin today."

" _Are_ you now?" Gothmog sneers. "And this ugly thing is your offering to them? He's skin and bones, Mairon, the only use they'll get out of him is as a toothpick."

Mairons feels Fingon trembling behind him, staring at the ground. He, too, is terrified—if Gothmog recognizes him as High King...

But he snaps, a signal that _I've got this_ , and Fingon takes a ragged breath, falling back into line.

"I'll have to inquire about the details of that experiment another time, I'm afraid," Gothmog says in mock disappointment. "For now I have _real_ work to do—this is the last of the escapees from Himring. Recognize anyone? They've all been here before. Too bad we couldn't catch their lord, eh?"

 _He knows,_ Mairon thinks, mind gone blank with horror, and Fingon _squeaks_ —

"What, that upset you, pretty thing?" Gothmog coos, leaning down to inspect Fingon. "You'll never be free of us, you know, even if you somehow manage to escape. Even now Lord Maedhros is doing the Master's work for us—it's him that led that Union that failed you all so spectacularly, and got his whore king killed." He chuckles. "Actually, between you and me...he's your keeper's whore now. Kidnapped and turned, just like poor Maitimo. Bet as soon as you're warg-meat Mairon will go back up to his tower and vent his rage on good old King Fingon, for taking away his favorite pet so long ago."

"That's _enough_ , Gothmog," Mairon interrupts, sparks flying from his fingertips—not that a Balrog, a fire Maia gone primal, is intimidated by such a petty outburst. "You're just sore you couldn't bag yourself another High King. Are you trying to one-up the Master, hm? _He's_ killed two—do you think you can do _better_ than him?"

Real fear flashes in Gothmog's eyes. Those kinds of thoughts and rumors could get you killed in Angband, _especially_ these days. Gothmog recovers quickly enough, but he's shaken, enough at least to snort out a burst of flame and turn away.

"You should be careful, Mairon," he growls. "You're going soft, you know."

"You mistake intelligence for weakness," Mairon drawls.

Gothmog doesn't have a response. He lumbers away, shouting at the line of prisoners, but Mairon can't breathe a sigh of relief—not yet. Not 'til they've left Angband far behind them.

Tears run down Fingon's cheeks, smirching the grime Mairon had so carefully rubbed onto him. But he shoulders his burden and meets Mairon's eyes with determination: they must keep going.

Mairon leads them to the animal pens. Thuringwethil awaits them, eyes glinting in the low torchlight.

"Ready?" she whispers, and Mairon nods.

Fngon cringes away from the sound of snapping wolves. "What are we doing here?" he hisses.

"Is he here?" Mairon asks, ignoring his question.

"I snuck him in," Thuringwethil says proudly. "Good job distracting Gothmog—he's the worst. Had to restrain your lover-boy from attempting a rescue of his people. You elves really are noble idiots! Told him he could either die saving some doomed underlings or _maybe_ get to see his lovers again. He picked the latter."

"This is so unfair," Fingon murmurs. "I—I _knew_ some of those people—they were cooks, servants, not warriors..."

"They'll be those things here too," Mairon dismisses. "They already escaped once, they know how it goes. It won't be as nice as what they're used to, but if you're not a political or war prisoner, thralldom isn't so bad, really."

"Easy for you to say," rasps a new voice, and Mairon and Fingon both go rigid.

Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol, Lord Maedhros the Tall of Himring, eldest son of Fëanor, steps out of the shadows, gaze locked with Mairon's primary set of eyes. The others shrivel away, and his glamor falters at precisely the worst moment.

"You are no thrall, no matter what you may think, Þauron," Maedhros growls, and to hear his ruby speak that hated name destroys Mairon in a way he hadn't thought he could be hurt. "I will warn you not to delude yourself, Deceiver."

* * *

**Barad Eithel, F.A. 413.**

After Angband and ceding the crown and establishing Himring, Maedhros thought his life would settle into a rhythm. He has duties now, as a lord, even if he surrendered the kingship to Nolofinwë; the North keeps him busy fighting the Enemy, his brothers stir up enough trouble amongst themselves that he never goes a few years without visiting them to solve some quarrel, he even comes to expect Fingon's semi-regular visits that bring him the only joy he truly knows.

Finno, Kánya, is at once a constant and a surprise: some days Maedhros will arrive home from patrol to find Kánya already open and waiting for him, having arrived all of a sudden in the middle of the night; other times he tells Maedhros he is coming months in advance, so that he may prepare grand feasts and festivals for the Crown Prince. Occasionally, Maedhros will ride for Barad Eithel, when the shadow of Angband grows too menacing. Fingon is the one thing he knows can drive away any wicked thoughts of Mairon's lips and hands and hips. Finno's are better in every way.

Yes, there is some element of surprise in their rekindled relationship, but Maedhros thinks he's good at anticipating his beloved's antics, at least enough that nothing is truly a shock. It's comforting, to know someone that well, to trust him.

But he would never in all the ages of Arda have anticipated _this_.

He rides for Hithlum as soon as he gets the raven-letter, not even bothering to send a response. He doesn't understand—doesn't know _how_ or _why_ —Finno couldn't, _wouldn't_ have—

"What do you _mean_ , we have a son?" he cries as soon as he bursts into his lover's rooms, not even having wasted time to greet the King.

"Shhh!" Fingon hushes, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him away into another hall. "He's _sleeping_! Do you know how long it took me to get him that way? Babies!"

"I have six younger brothers, I _know_ ," Maedhros says through numb lips. "But I—when I fell for _you_ I thought that meant the end of caring for babies! Finno, you..." He doesn't want to voice his fears. Finno, faithless to him? Perhaps he deserves it, after Mairon, but Finno is surely too good to... And even worse, Finno with an _elleth_? The very idea would be laughable—except—

"Technically he's Lalwen's," Fingon says, breezing over Maedhros' worries without needing to ask.

"Lalwen is married?" he asks, and then: "What _happened_ to her?"

"She's not married, that's the issue." Finno smirks. "Much like I am not married, actually." He pulls Maedhros into a kiss, so tender yet firm that Maedhros can't believe he'd thought for a moment that his lover could ever betray him.

"What..." Maedhros says when Finno lets him up for air. "Kánya, I—as much as I would like to let _this_ —" he swats Finno's hand away from his groin, and his lover only laughs— "continue, I need to know what's going on first."

Finno nods, eyes growing serious. "Lalwen had a child," he says, restating the obvious. "I'm not sure who the father is—I think Atar knows, but he's not telling—but they aren't wed, and if she wants to remain a good diplomat to the Sindar she can't have a child out of wedlock trailing behind her. She took a year's vacation to the coast—well, a more secluded part of the coast, she was at the Falas before—to have the child, and then she delivered him here. She wanted Atar to find her son a good home, but I... Well, when you meet him you'll understand. I took one look and—his fëa latched onto mine, is the only way I can explain it."

"But you're not married either, and you're the Crown Prince," Maedhros points out. "I don't see how this is any better."

"I've officially adopted him." Finno beams. "No one needs to think he's my blood son, and I _do_ need an heir—it's perfect!"

 _Is it?_ Maedhros wonders, but Fingon looks so _happy_ , and his fëa glows in a new, paternal way. Maedhros can't help but yearn for that, too, even if he can't be Finno's husband any more than Lalwen can be her son's mother.

"I know you can't stay here to raise him with me," Finno murmurs, pulling him close. "But...I would marry you if I could, Russo. I love you. If I am to be a father, I need you at my side in some way."

"Of course," he chokes out. He hasn't even met the child yet, doesn't even know his name, and yet—he loves him because he's Finno's. And that makes him Maedhros's, too.

(Ereinion, they name him, Scion of Kings: of Finwë's daughter and of Fingon and of Maedhros. And if he is the only one who knows the truth, that's fine. He's the only one who needs to, in the end.)

* * *

**Angband, F.A. 472, Long Night.**

For one long and terrible moment, Russo has eyes only for Sauron, and Fingon despairs—but then Sauron bows his head and Maedhros turns away from him to see Fingon, and—

The next thing he knows he's lifted up in strong, familiar arms, and Russo is sobbing and clinging to him and Finno is doing much the same and he never wants to be parted ever again—

Thuringwethil clears her throat. "Mushy stuff later," she snaps. "We're not out yet."

"Finno, I—" Russo stops himself, but he doesn't let Fingon go. Fingon melts into him, overwhelmed in a way he's only been once before—when it was him in Russo's place, saving his love from Angband.

"I thought—" Russo chokes out, but Fingon silences him with a kiss. It's far too brief, but Thuringwethil is right. They're not free yet.

"Later," he promises, peeling himself off of his beloved.

"Did—" Fingon's never heard Sauron this off balance. He's more certain now than ever that he's truly in love with Maedhros, and he doesn't know how to feel about that.

"Did you," Sauron tries again, "bring what I asked?"

Maedhros lifts his arm, where Fingon cut off last time they were here. His hook prosthetic is attached, curved and deadly sharp. Fingon has seen him rip out orc throats with it before...and felt the cold metal teasing his most intimate parts. He shivers.

"Good." Sauron draws himself up, haughty once more. "You'll need it to steer our steed."

"We're escaping on horseback?" Fingon asks doubtfully. "Or—warg-back?"

"Nope," Thuringwethil drawls, popping the _p_. "You'll see."

"This way," Sauron says, and leads them further into the maze of pens containing unseen, unseemly monsters.

Russandol reaches for Fingon's hand with the one he has left, and Fingon clings to it for dear life. They only stop once, when Russo realizes Finno is hauling Sauron's bag and takes up the burden himself with a glare to his captor. Fingon would complain—he's still capable of physical labor; Sauron barely hurt him at all—but he knows that Russo wants to serve him, so he lets him, and loves him for it.

"Here we are," Sauron whispers, and opens the largest of the pens—and Fingon forgets to breathe.

It's a dragon—it looks young, but it's already _huge_. It's black, not golden like Glaurung, and it's—it's got _wings_ , huge and scaly.

It's beautiful and terrifying and Fingon wishes it was one of Yavanna's creatures and not Morgoth's. He looks up to Mairon with a gleam in his eye and Mairon _grins_.

"We're not—we can't—" Maedhros chokes out, squeezing Fingon's hand.

"Her name is Ancalagon," Mairon says, reaching out to scratch her chin. She huffs out a lick of flame, engulfing him—but Mairon is a fire Maia, once of Aulë's forges, and he only scolds her for misbehaving. "She's going to be _massive_ someday, but she's only a baby now. She hatched too recently for us to bring her to the last battle, but the next one..."

"We're taking her with us, though?" Fingon asks, reaching out to stroke her flank. She's smooth and shiny and yet hard as steel and he _loves_ her.

"Maitimo, hook yourself in here," Mairon says, pointing to where she's already saddled. "I'll talk to her, but you're strongest—you'll have to guide her. I'll hold onto you and Fingon will hold onto me."

Russo bristles—whether at the insanity of all this or the name he'd long forsaken or the plan to put Sauron between him and his lover, Fingon isn't sure. But he nods sharply, and swallows his fear, and braces his shoulders in preparation to do as Mairon says.

"Once she's in the air, they'll know something's wrong," Mairon warns. "Do you have a place for us to go?"

"Yes," Maedhros grunts. "An isolated spot. Near Doriath."

"Doriath?" Fingon laughs.

"It's the last place anyone will check," Maedhros reasons. "And the Enemy is afraid of Melian."

Mairon sighs. "I'll deal with that when we get there," he says. "Are we ready?"

"Yes," Fingon says immediately—he's never hated a place like he does Angband, and freedom is so close he can taste it.

"Yes," Maedhros echoes, and Fingon knows he's just as eager to leave this dreadful land as he is. "Are you?"

Mairon hesitates, and Fingon tenses. If he's changed his mind—if he's going to betray them _now_ —

"Just—one last moment," Mairon murmurs. Thuringwethil perches on one of Ancalagon's horns and looks at him curiously as he takes out a knife.

"What are you—" Fingon begins, clutching Maedhros' hand, ready to flee if he attacks.

But Mairon raises the blade to his own neck. He lets his illusion drop, his hair turning from fine white-blond to flowing orange, bright like fire. He looks...young. Vulnerable. But most of all, determined.

"I'm not a servant of Melkor—of _Morgoth_ anymore," he says firmly. He draws his hair in his fist, pulling it taught, and lifts the blade. Swiftly, he brings the knife down, severing his long locks from his head.

"There," he declares, throwing it to the ground where it shrivels and loses its luster. His chin trembles, but his eyes are bright. "As a symbol. I'm not—I'm not of this place anymore. I'm not _his_ anymore."

"Very noble," Fingon drawls. "Now, are we going or not?"

Mairon shakes his head, a few loose strands of hair falling out of his new cut. It falls about his ears, and...well, it might look fetching if he'd been looking in the mirror. Fingon resists the urge to grab the knife and touch it up. Maybe he can do that later.

"Yes," Mairon says. "Let's leave."

At last, Maedhros hooks himself into Ancalagon's saddle. Mairon wraps his arms around him, and Fingon around him. Mairon's new short hair tickles Fingon's nose, and he sneezes softly.

"Go, girl," Mairon hisses, and Maedhros tugs the reins—and with a fearsome roar and a burst of flame, Ancalagon rises and flies them to freedom.

* * *

**~~Tol Sirion~~ Tol-in-Gaurhoth, F.A. 455.**

This place is a mess—the elves really didn't want to surrender it, not that Mairon begrudges them for that—but it's in a prime location, and now it's _his_. He's proved himself enough in this battle, redoubled on his loyalty (or a semblance of it, at least) so that the Master's pleased with him again. It took four hundred years for him to forgive Mairon for losing Maitimo, but at least he's earned his keep—literally.

This place is a fortress, one that didn't fall easily. Mairon's orcs are cleaning up the mess of dead elves, but the vampires are scouting out the high towers. His werewolves are hunting for stragglers, checking the perimeter. Mairon pushes back a twinge of disappointment that he hadn't managed to nab the lord of the isle, one of Finwë's line. It wasn't too bad, really; he was four generations removed and making an example out of him wouldn't have done all that much. And if he wasn't any use dead...well, Mairon knows better than most how little the Noldor value hostages.

Mairon laughs as he kicks away a corpse of one of his own warriors. She'd been a captain, a first-generation orc from a twisted elf's womb, fierce and unfailingly loyal. She's dead now, and Mairon can't find it in himself to mourn her.

His chuckle turns into a loud cackle, and he knows he must seem mad and cruel. It's not that he delights in blood or gore—he likes to keep himself cleanly, organized, well-ordered—but he hasn't felt this _free_ since the first awful realization that Melkor was an even harsher Master than strict Aulë. He's out from under Melkor's thumb now, though he still serves his greater purpose, and he's a lord of his own castle.

He hears a wolf howl, and a bitter, wild joy seizes him. He howls along with it, more dog now than the kitten-thing he'd been in softer times with Maitimo, and if that's the price of his hard-won freedom, then so be it. This will be Tol-in-Gaurhoth, and he the Lord of Werewolves.

He only wishes his victory didn't taste so much of blood.

* * *

**Amon Rûdh, F.A. 473.**

"It'll do," Mairon declares after a cursory inspection of the dwarf-warren in the hill. "I'd've preferred another river island, but...this will work."

"Because that worked so well for you last time," Fingon mutters, and Maedhros can't find it in him to be annoyed that he's so eager to needle Mairon.

Finno is _here_. He's in Maedhros' arms, he's mostly unharmed, he's safe, he's _alive_. They're _together_ and Maedhros holds him tight, never wants to let him go. Fingon clings to him just as much, and while the moment is far from perfect Maedhros is so deliriously happy, so incredibly relieved, that he doesn't know how to express anything other than his love for Finno.

Fingon, on the other hand—suitably, since he's in possession of two, and Maedhros has only one—seems to be perfectly able to simultaneously rejoice in their reunion and look upon the safe place Maedhros found for them. As Mairon strides around like he owns the place, Fingon tilts his head, and says, "Is it just me, or does this place feel...lived in?" He glances up at Maedhros, presses a kiss to his chin. Maedhros hums contentedly, only half-listening to his words. "I mean, are you sure this is abandoned?"

"There are no dwarves around here anymore," Maedhros rasps. "Not since long, long before the battle. It's too small a settlement."

"We'll expand it," Mairon declares. "We...well, I don't think we can keep Ancalagon here—"

Finno pouts. "But she's such a darling."

"She is." Mairon sighs. Maedhros can't believe he's the only reasonable one between the three of them: she's a _dragon_ , he wants to say, but he remembers how excited Fingon was to confront Glaurung, how upset he was that the beast wanted to kill him and not befriend him...and Mairon, of course, loves all kinds of horrifying creatures. "I would love to keep her, but she's too big—too obvious. Our escape did not go unnoticed! She'll need to fly back home, so they can't use her to find us. Besides, I don't have the tools to care for her."

"You're a smith," Fingon points out, "can't you make them?"

"If the Master sends her back to us in battle, we'll turn her against him," Mairon reasons. " _Then_ we'll see about that."

"Battle?" Maedhros asks. "And... _we_?" He—well, he'd been so focused on the rescue, on saving Finno, on seeing Mairon again, that he hadn't truly thought past that to the future. He'd found the safe place Mairon asked for, but...

"Of course!" Mairon smiles at him, his cat-eyes so bright and excited that Maedhros' heart pangs. How can he still do this to him, after all these centuries, with Finno _right here_? He tightens his grip on his beloved and tries to banish the traitorous thoughts that whisper to him, the memories of their time together... _Finno, Finno, Finno,_ he repeats to himself, and buries his face in the short mess that now is Fingon's hair.

(It's horrible, what Mairon did to FInno's hair...and yet he's so _cute_ this way. Maedhros will always adore him, no matter what he looks like. And he _does_ look different now, even beyond his hair: Maitimo died in Angband and came out Maedhros, and while Finno is still handsome, valiant Finno, the marks of his torment are visible on him as well. From Gothmog, in the battle, he assured Maedhros when he first traced the silver scars that now criss-cross his face. Mairon only harmed him as much as was needed for his disguise; those shallow bruises are already fading.)

"I escaped to found my own fortress," Mairon explains, as if this should've been obvious. And it does sound vaguely familiar—he must've mentioned in it one of their communications. "To make my own army, and be my own lord." He curls his lip. "It's the same thing you elven-princes do; you can hardly judge me for it."

"But _we_ are not doing this _with_ you," Maedhros growls. "We're—" But he doesn't know _what_ he wants to do.

Mairon flinches. "You...of course you don't have to," he says softly. "I did—I did what I needed to do; I'm free, and I've made amends for...how things ended between us. But...where else will you go, Maitimo?"

"Don't call me that," Maedhros warns. "I am not beautiful any longer."

Mairon's form flickers slightly, and suddenly he is scarred and weathered just like Maedhros. (Just like Fingon.) "You think _that_ is what I see in you?" he snaps. "If I could not shift my fana so easily, I would look like _this_. You see this wound upon my neck? Your brother's dog gave that to me, not so many years ago. My glamors are what keep me 'beautiful,' and they only mask the scars on my fëa." He gestures to Fingon. "And your beloved Finno is no pretty thing anymore, either, by those standards—and yet to me he is still handsome, and I know you feel the same."

Maedhros is—what is this? Is he _jealous_ that Mairon finds Fingon handsome? Or is he— He shoves that thought aside; the dreams he once had of sharing Mairon and Fingon with each other, with himself, are long dead.

"That's not..." He shakes his head. "It still is not my name. Call me Maedhros. That is who I have been for centuries."

"Russo," Fingon murmurs, "it's alright...he didn't mean anything by it."

Maedhros can't believe what he's hearing. "Are you _agreeing_ with him?" he says incredulously. "You, who named him Sauron?"

Fingon winces, and Mairon's hair turns into a beacon of flame.

" _What_?" he cries. "That was _you_? _You're_ responsible for that smear campaign? But you never even met me before—"

"I couldn't call you a 'precious thing' when you so deeply hurt my Russo!" Fingon snaps. "Truly, what did you expect me to—"

"Enough, enough!" Maedhros interrupts. "I take it all back; I prefer you not arguing. _Please_."

They fall silent, both looking at him with such gentleness that Maedhros feels weak. How is it that Mairon can still undo him like this? How is it that Finno's adoration feels so similar to Mairon's? What...what's _wrong_ with him?

"The point remains," Mairon says quietly, "that you both have no other safe haven. Himring is fallen; so is Barad Eithel."

"My brothers—" Maedhros begins, but he stops before he finishes the sentence. Maglor has no doubt given him up for dead, or mad, or worse. He practically ordered him to do that. And the others...Celegorm and Curufin never liked Fingon; Caranthir and the twins were ambivalent at best. No, he could not rely on his brothers, especially not with the Oath. It rested now, after their most recent disastrous attempt at fulfilling it, but if he returned from Angband with a treasure (Finno) he held greater than the Silmarils, having made no effort to regain them...

"My brother, then," Fingon offers, leaning into him. "Turukáno—he yet lives, does he not? And his kingdom is safe—"

"And hidden so well no one knows how to find it," Mairon points out. "Not even you, I would deem."

Fingon frowns. "Well...yes. But the other elven realms—"

"Doriath is out of the question." Maedhros laughs humorlessly. "We're pushing our luck just being here, in its shadow. And Nargothrond would not harbor a Fëanorion, even if the High King were with him."

Fingon scowled. "That was not your fault."

"Orodreth does not see it that way, judging by the paltry force he sent to the Union," Maedhros reasons. "And if they learn anything of how we escaped Angband—well. We all know how Finrod died."

Mairon winces. "I regret everything that happened there," he mutters. "And I did not _know_ it was him; that was the whole _point_ of our battle—"

"As if that would've stopped you if you had!" Fingon cries.

"Well, you see now what I mean!" Mairon waves a hand. "You cannot return to your own strongholds, for they have fallen. You cannot go to the few others that remain, for they will not welcome you, or they cannot be found. So where will you go, if you do not stay here?"

"East," Maedhros says, almost longingly. East—away from the troubles of Beleriand, away from the danger. If he and Finno could be together, happy in the east...

"We can't," Fingon murmurs. "I am—well, I suppose Turukáno is High King now. Everyone believes me to be dead. But I am still dedicated to the Noldor, and Russandol, I know you are too. We cannot leave them here, and...your Oath..."

"Damn the Oath," Maedhros bemoans, but that has done nothing to save him in the past, and it does nothing now. "What about—" he's grasping for straws now, but anything, _anything_ , they can't stay here with Mairon, they _can't_ — "the Havens?"

"The Havens!" Fingon cries. Suddenly he wriggles out of Maedhros' grip, whirling around with wild eyes. "Oh, Russo— _Gil_! Our _son_! He's there, Círdan has always been an ally, we—!"

"Oh," Mairon says softly. "I quite forgot you had...a son."

"I sent him away after the Bragollach," Fingon says, his voice cracking. "I couldn't...it wasn't safe in Hithlum. He's with his other family now, his mother and father...I only had the opportunity to raise him for a short while. But—well, Gil-galad has three fathers: me, and Russo, and Círdan himself, and Lalwen yet lives; she was not at the Battle—"

"The Havens are about to be besieged," Mairon says off-handedly. "They won't be safe for long; the Master expects them to fall quickly—"

" _What_?" Maedhros growls, and Fingon grabs Mairon's collar, eyes wild.

Mairon pushes him away ineffectually. "This is _war_ ," he reminds them. "And the Havens are the weakest of the elven settlements; they're the next obvious target. Did you not expect this?"

"We have to warn them!" Fingon exclaims. "We'll take Ancalagon, and—"

"You think they will not attack a dragon on sight?" Mairon snorts. "They won't trust you if _that's_ how you contact them, and they certainly won't open their gates to you."

"Send Thuri, then," Maedhros says. "She can deliver the message in secret; we can both sign it, and..." He swallows. "Damn it all. There really _is_ no other place for us."

"Where is Thuri?" Fingon demands, practically wild with anxiety. "We have to let Gil know—we have to—"

"Mairon!" cries Thuringwethil, and all three of them rush toward her. "Mairon, there's—we have guests!"

Enemies already? Maedhros unsheaths his sword, bracing himself for orcs—but he is stunned instead to see three dwarves, even smaller than the kind from Belegost, axes raised and trembling in fear.

"I _told_ you this place wasn't quite abandoned," Fingon mutters.

Mairon summons a ball of fire in his fist, but Maedhros steps in front of him.

"If we're going to do this," he says darkly, "if we're going to...work together, you cannot kill everyone who gets in your way. Let me speak to them."

Mairon's eyes flash for a moment, but he lets the flame die, and steps back. "Alright," he murmurs, and he never acquiesced so quickly to Maedhros before, and he hates the thrill of excitement that runs through him at his swift submission.

"Masters," Maedhros greets the dwarves in Khuzdul, and they start backward. He knows he is a gruesome sight to their kind: far too tall, even for an elf, scarred and maimed and hideously hairless, but he was friends with Azaghâl before the Fifth Battle and he knows their secret language.

"How do you speak the tongue of the Maker?" growls the eldest dwarf.

"I was friends with a king of your people, once," he says, and the dwarf spits on the ground.

"We are exiles from our so-called 'people'," he snaps. "And _your_ people drove us out of the caverns we once called home, and would now do so again!"

"Peace," Maedhros says, bowing to them with his arms folded in the way he was taught to show their folk respect. "We would not oust you—and we are exiles, also."

That intrigues them, and the eldest lowers his weapon. The other two—they look like they might be his sons—exchange a glance, but follow their father.

"Speak on," the dwarf says slowly. "We will listen."

The dwarves are known as Mîm and Khîm and Ibun, and after a long talk, half in Sindarin and half in Khuzdul, an agreement is reached. They hate the Sindar more than the Noldor, and Fingon's disparaging comments against Thingol endear them to him; Mairon they do not like but Thuringwethil is delighted by them and they amused by her. Maedhros brokers a deal with them: they will protect this hill, called Amon Rûdh in Sindarin and Sharbhund in Khuzdul, and in return the dwarves will allow them to live there.

It is only later, after they have settled into their new lodgings and Ancalagon has been set free and Thuringwethil sent to the Havens with a warning, that Maedhros realizes he and Fingon have made their decision. They are staying with Mairon.

He doesn't know what to do with the torrent of emotion that elicits within him, and Fingon seems to sense his agony, for he kisses him deep and slow and pulls him into their bed. They make love that night desperately, joyously, drawing out their miraculous reunion as long as they can, and for a time, that is enough. Maedhros loves Fingon, he has never doubted that, and Fingon loves him also. Mairon doesn't matter, not with Finno in his arms. At least, that's what Maedhros tells himself.

But months pass, and Mairon schemes. He draws the dwarves into helping him fortify the hill, turn it into a proper fortress; he enlists Fingon in plans to gather more dreadful creatures to him, lure them from Taur-nu-Fuin and from Angband; he _watches_ Maedhros, but says nothing. And Maedhros, helpless, watches _him_ , remembers what they once had, sees Fingon and Mairon coming to a wary arrangement of not-quite-friendship, sees even Mairon's tenderness with which he tends to Fingon's still-healing wounds and the way Fingon ever-so-slightly leans into his gentle touch.

It's like it was all those years ago, the struggle within him to stop this _wanting_ , this yearning for Mairon's touch, his comfort, his smile. Mairon is different now, sharper and harsher and craftier, but he's still _Mairon_ , still warm and passionate and bright. And contrasted against Fingon, Maedhros sees both how similar and how different his two lovers are, and his old fantasies reawaken to torment him.

It's not until spring comes, and Mairon brings home the first of his pets, a massive werewolf that had been roaming Taur-nu-Fuin ever since the fall of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, that Maedhros loses his self-control. He's never been fond of Mairon's creatures, but seeing him so happy to be reunited with a long-lost friend, seeing how Fingon pets the thing with some hesitance and then with affection, seeing all that—he can't help but give it a few pats, too, and his hand brushes Mairon's, and they lock eyes, and—

"Maedhros?" asks Mairon softly, and he just stares, lost in those eyes, lost in how much he _misses_ him, and he jerks back, trembling, and flees to his rooms.

Fingon finds him a few hours later, trembling and wrapped in blankets. He sits at his feet, leaning his head on Maedhros' knees the way he used to when Maedhros was first recovering from Thangorodrim. For a moment he's quiet, reaching up to hold Maedhros' hand, rubbing his thumb over his palm. Maedhros stops shaking, eventually, and then pulls Fingon up into his lap, holding him tight, wondering why he feels so _torn_.

"You love him," Fingon murmurs into his shoulder, and Maedhros tenses—but Fingon presses a kiss to his collarbone, and he slumps his shoulders.

"Yes," he whispers, hating that it's true. "I—I wish I didn't. I have _you_ , why would I want _more_ , especially from him—"

"Hush." Fingon quiets him with a gentle kiss. "It's alright, Russo. You know I love you, right? Always and forever, tenn' ambar-metta?"

He nods mutely, tears trailing down his cheeks. "I don't understand," he rasps. "I thought..."

"I was wrong, all those years ago." Fingon wraps his arms around him, leans into his embrace. "You were right; he did love you. He still does. He did all this for you. He could've killed me, could've tortured me and kept me in Angband, turned me into something dreadful...but he didn't. He risked everything, for your sake, because he knows you love me. I hated him for that, for a long time, but—I don't know. We make strange allies in war, and stranger ones in love, I think."

"He brought you back to me, when I thought I lost you forever." That's the truth Maedhros has been so long denying. "How can I...how can I _not_ love him for that?"

Finno kisses him again, biting his lip with a gentleness that leaves him moaning. "My Russo," he whispers, pressing him into their bed, rocking against him, pressing their arousals together through their clothes. "You know—I know about what you did with him, the first time. I never said, but it's hard not to see, when you would dwell on those memories as we made love..."

"I'm sorry," Maedhros chokes out, "I didn't want you to—"

"It made me love you all the more fiercely," he says. "I wanted to erase him, replace him. I thoughtI did a good job...but nothing could make you forget entirely." Fingon reaches down, fumbling at their robes, brushing against Maedhros' erection.

"Kánya," he rasps, and he doesn't know what's happening to him, why Finno is being so gentle, so understanding...

"You wanted us both," Finno whispers as he takes them both in hand. He inhales sharply, mouths at Maedhros' neck until Maedhros is keening under him, bucking up into his grip, losing himself in pleasure. "You _want_ us both, still."

"Yes, yes," he rasps, and he doesn't know if he's admitting to what Fingon is implying or begging him for more. "Kánya, Finno, I—"

"Love you," Fingon murmurs, moving faster now, his own breath coming quicker. "Russo, I'll always want you, always love you, no matter what, no matter who else you want."

"I want _you_ ," Maedhros cries softly, "Kánya, _please_ —" He's close, so close, and the _things_ Finno says—

"He'd love to do this to you," Fingon says, pulling back for just a moment, his eyes dark with lust. "He'd love to touch you like this again, make you fall apart. He wants that so very badly, but he won't say it, won't ask for it. But it torments him."

"You're tormenting me," Maedhros complains, pressing up against his lover, wanting more, wanting him to return to where they had been just a moment before.

Fingon tilts his head, a wicked smile curling at his lips. "Oh, Russo. I'd never do that to you." And yet his touches are light and teasing now, and Maedhros _needs_ —

"I won't let you come until you tell me what it is you really want," Fingon decides, reaching up to brush against Maedhros' nipples.

"You, you, you," Maedhros babbles. "Any way you want me, I want you."

"I _know_ that." Fingon twists a nipple harshly, and the pain-pleasure has Maedhros crying out, twisting, trying to get more stimulation however he can. "But you want _more_ , don't you, my beloved?"

"I want—" he can't bring himself to say it, doesn't want it to be true, but he knows it _is_ , deep down— "I want you—and—"

"Yes?" Fingon slides down, his breath hot against Maedhros' cock, and he tries to thrust forward, but Fingon laughs softly and pulls away.

"Not until you tell me what you want," he scolds. "Me, and what else? _Who_ else?"

"I want you, and him, I want you both," Maedhros sobs, a weight at last lifted off his chest. " _Fuck_ , Finno, I've always wanted that, ever since I had him, and I thought it was you I'd never have again, and then—but I always wanted, dreamed of it, wanted you taking me while I took him, wanted you both inside me, wanted to watch you fuck him 'til he can barely stay corporeal—"

" _That's_ more like it," and Fingon is _pleased_ , Maedhros has made him smile, and he takes Maedhros in his mouth and reaches out with his thought, and then—

Maedhros sees through Fingon's eyes, and feels a strange burning in his chest, something that's like hate and love and desire all at once, and Mairon is there, looming over him (over Fingon) and Fingon is _angry_ but he still reaches up and tugs Mairon down and _kisses_ him—

And this isn't a fantasy, he realizes, it's a _memory_ , Fingon _kissed Mairon_ , Fingon wants Mairon _too_ , Maedhros can have them _both_ —

That's what pushes him over the edge, coming down Fingon's throat, and Finno hums with satisfaction around him, and then he's kissing Maedhros with his seed still on his tongue, grinding against his hip until he spills too, all over Maedhros' stomach, and he whispers all the things he wants to do with Mairon into Maedhros' ears and Maedhros is so overwhelmed with love and hope and want and relief that he weeps and weeps and weeps, and he can hardly believe any of this is real.

"Tomorrow," Finno murmurs as they come down from their high. "If you want it—we can talk to him."

"I want," he croaks, clutching Finno like he's the only thing keeping afloat in a storm at sea. "Finno, I... _thank you_."

"I cannot say I love him," Fingon admits, "but I love you, and he _is_ a pretty thing. And you're right—he brought us back together. I can learn to love him for that."

Maedhros buries his face in Fingon's shoulder and cries some more, whispering _Thank you thank you thank you_ until he can't think or move or do anything at all, and it is with Finno wrapped around him and the promise of another body soon to join them that he falls into the deepest sleep he's had in years.

* * *

**Barad Eithel, F.A. 456.**

As soon as he reaches his private chambers he throws his crown to the floor, expecting to hear it clatter; it wouldn't break, it was made by _Noldor_ , after all, but he's full of such anger and grief and loneliness that he wishes it _would_ —

But it doesn't reach the ground. A hand, large and weathered, without a matching pair, catches it and holds it up to the light.

Fingon whirls around and throws himself at his lover. It's not gentle; he can't be gentle, not now, not after—all _this_. Not after his father rode to his death (a foolish, pointless death, no matter how brave, and Fingon hates that he would've done the same if he'd thought of it first), not after his brother sent no word to him from his secret kingdom not even to mourn together or swear fealty to his new king, not after Maedhros knelt at his feet and pledged his life in service to the king in that cold, monotone voice Fingon thought he'd never hear directed toward himself—

His kiss is brief and biting. He pushes Maedhros away from him when he tries to reciprocate, because _no_ , that's not what he _wants_ —but he doesn't know what he _does_ want.

Maedhros steps back, not losing his balance, not losing his self-control. He grips the crown in his fist, lifts it up to eye level and admires it.

"Never thought I'd have to hold this again," he rasps.

"You—" Fingon growls. "This is _your_ fault— _you_ thrust this duty upon me—"

"No, I passed it to your father," Maedhros says softly. "And the only thing I _thrust_ upon you—"

Fingon grabs him and drags him down for another kiss, biting until he tastes blood. He doesn't know if it's Maedhros' or his own; he doesn't fucking _care_.

"I don't want this," he cries, clinging to Maedhros' robe and sobbing into his chest. "I want my father back, I don't want to be king, I—"

Maedhros licks his lips, then presses them to Fingon's forehead. "I know, I know," he murmurs. "Kánya, you must be stronger than me. You must do this for our people."

Fingon trembles as Maedhros wraps his arms around him, holds him gently, holds him close. He can hear the steady beating of Maedhros' heart; he remembers a time he feared it would stop, but it didn't. Maedhros is here, with him, despite everything.

Maedhros places the crown back on his head, and Fingon flinches.

"No," he whispers. "Please...not now. I don't want to be your king, not when I don't have to be."

Maedhros falls to his knees, looks up at him with burning eyes. "But you make such a handsome king," he whispers. "I could worship you all night, your Majesty."

Valar help him. Fingon shudders, hating how those words affect him so. The crown is heavy on his brow, and he still wants to take it off, shatter it, destroy the reality that his father is dead and he is king—but the distant coldness is gone from Maedhros' voice, replaced by the fire of life, hot desire sparking between them, and he _does_ want that.

"If you would serve me, take my burden from me," he rumbles, and lifts the crown off his head again, resting it on Maedhros' head. His lover falls still, panic sparking in his eyes, and Fingon leans down for a thorough kiss.

"I can't," Maedhros gasps. "Finno—not now, I can't, I—"

Fingon pushes the crown off of him, and it falls to the floor at last. It doesn't clatter, it _thuds_ , and the sound is dark and heavy as his heart.

"Later, maybe," he whispers, falling to his knees and cradling Maedhros' face in his hands. "But now, let's just—let's just be us." I need _you_ , he wants to say, but doesn't: Maedhros can feel it in his kiss, he knows.

The crown lies forgotten on the floor that night, and they do the best they can to make themselves forget why it is in their hands in the first place.

* * *

**Amon Rûdh, F.A. 486.**

Mairon purses his lips as he inspects the ragged group of outlaws before him. The dwarves brought them forth, after the werewolves caught their scent, and he can tell just how unnerved they are by him. He's made himself less intimidating, more like them, but even when he is the size and shape of a mortal he is still a Maia, and he still burns.

Their leader calls himself Neithan, but Mairon knows that is not his true name. There's something about him, the arrogance with which he carries himself, that makes him suspect...well, he'll find out soon enough if he's right. He's spent so much of his endless life deceiving that he knows how to spot a falsehood with ease, and once he catches someone in their lie it's easy to make them crack.

Not that he's anyone's torturer anymore. No, his lovers may be Kinslayers and warmongers, but they are _very_ insistent that is not allowed. But he doesn't need torture to be convincing.

Neithan's story comes out in pieces. His men are from Doriath and roundabout, exiles from their people like the petty-dwarves and the two Noldor captains who live here, like Mairon himself.

"You'll fit right in," he murmurs, and Neithan glares, but Mairon knows they will stay.

Neithan has turned this group of wildmen, the Gaurwaith, into something half-noble. Gaurwaith—Mairon likes the name, though Fingon thinks it's silly. But Mairon is still Lord of Werewolves, even if he's turned to breeding were-cats also, and he will take wolf-men over Edain any day.

He wonders if any of them—wild Andróg, perhaps—would consent to turn for him. It's been a long time since he had a willing subject, which means a long time since he's had a subject at all. In the aftermath of the haze of pleasure and disbelief when Maedhros and Fingon seduced him, he'd promised them all kinds of things, anything to make them stay, anything to have Maedhros back. He learned later what that meant, but it's worth it. Anything is worth it, to be so loved.

He still feels like he's intruding on them, sometimes, even when they take him to bed and undo him so thoroughly he forgets who he is. But then Maedhros, Maitimo, will call him kitten again and Fingon will laugh and tease them both as if he doesn't have a hundred pet names for his Russo, and Mairon lets himself rest in their arms and he feels _safe_ like he hasn't since—since ever, really.

In the years since their escape they have begun to build their fortress and their force. Amon Rûdh is converted into a proper war outpost, and Mairon lures as many creatures to him as he can. There are drakes, wolves, great cats, a few lesser Maia; he even draws in a few orcs, which his lovers balk at until he proves they are people capable of choosing a master. Their kind were once elves, after all. But there are no _new_ orcs, no one turned from their original form. Mairon misses that, misses the work, and hopes to do it again—but for now he obeys the whims of his lovers, lets their consciences rest a little easier.

To the outside world it is as if Maedhros vanished, Fingon dead, and Mairon deserted. The Lord of Himring went mad after his lover's death, whisper the rumors, and the Fëanorians cannot disprove them. Maedhros is restless, sometimes, wanting to ride out to Amon Ereb and his brothers, but he never does. It is too dangerous. Fingon's survival is less a secret than it is a joke: his death is such accepted, common knowledge that there is no one who speaks as if he lives, not even his son. Gil-galad and Círdan heeded the message sent by Thuri, but not its sender.

And Mairon—well. He had long since fallen into disgrace, and if anyone outside of Angband remembers him it is to mock him for succumbing to Lúthien. _Within_ Angband...he hears rumors from those thralls who come his way, that he is a traitor, that he is hunted, that the Master wants his head. Well: that's to be expected, after what he did. (He also hears rumors of Ancalagon, grown vast and mighty even in the few years since the escape and her return home. He wishes he could've kept her.)

The Three Captains of Amon Rûdh build their army slowly, subtly. They do not spread about word of their mission, and they certainly do not spread their names. They are known as Naruhir and Malador and Annatar: lords of copper, of gold, of gifts. Malador rides to battle in golden armor, his hair still not the length it once was. Naruhir stays back, for a scarred, red-haired elf with one hand is too easily recognizable; when he does fight at Malador's side, it is cloaked and masked. And Annatar: he is a shapeshifter. He may take whichever form he pleases.

It is by these names that they introduce themselves to Neithan and his Gaurwaith. They come to Amon Rûdh seeking battle, seeking blood. Neithan is hesitant to give up his control, but Naruhir bargains with him, and Annatar offers to arm and outfit them, and Malador rallies them against the Enemy. They are strange creatures, the Three Captains, not aligning themselves with the elves and yet still battling against the Master. Their forces, their _people_ , are those who cannot go elsewhere: the outcasts and exiles and the wretched, creeping things that do not wish to serve evil any longer but cannot change their nature.

Neithan, though, is different. He is from Menegroth, he lets slip, and that is when Mairon recognizes the faint threads of Melian's magic about him. But that's not all: there is a shadow over him, a darkness and a curse, so familiar that Mairon almost takes it for granted. But just because he and Maedhros and Fingon have all spent time in Angband, have all been tainted by Morgoth's cruelty, does not mean everyone is the same. And yet _Neithan_ is, though he has never been to the Iron Hells himself.

It strikes him, suddenly, some months after the Gaurwaith settle in. "You are of Hador's line," he states, and Neithan flinches.

"I am Neithan—" he begins, but Mairon sees through him.

"You are cursed," he deduces. "And Hador's heir is in Angband. You must be his kin, to fall under that curse."

"You have news of Húrin Thalion?" not-Neithan demands, and Mairon smiles.

"You are his son," he guesses. "What is your true name?"

He growls. "Yes, I am Túrin son of Húrin, though I beg you not to speak that name to any, not even the other captains."

"I will tell my lovers what I wish," Mairon says, not about to be cowed by a mortal. He doesn't underestimate them, not after Beren, but he is still a _Maia_ , and he has his pride. "Besides—they knew Húrin. He marched under Fingon's banner."

" _Fingon_ —" Túrin took a sharp breath, and his eyes widen. "Fingon is dead. Turgon is the King of the Noldor."

"Half-true, half-false," Mairon hums. "You know that Malador and Naruhir were not always named thus, do you not?"

"Malador..." Túrin breathes, and Mairon smiles. Túrin will be a good deputy captain: he is clever, he is full of hate for the Enemy, and he cannot find rest anywhere.

"Come, Túrin son of Húrin," he says, inviting him up into the chambers he shares with his fellows captains, his lovers. "Would you like to meet the elves who have returned from the dead?"

* * *

**Himring, F.A. 465.**

"Do you want to talk about it?" Fingon asks softly. He's wrapped around Maedhros, legs slung over his torso and chin resting on his shoulder. It would be amusing, considering how much smaller he is, if it didn't feel so good. Maedhros is lord and commander and protector, but—he needs to be held, sometimes, by someone who loves him no matter what. Sometimes that's one of his brothers (less often, these days), but he knows he can always rely on Fingon.

Maedhros shrugs, making a small noise in the back of his throat. Finrod's death hit them all hard—such a cruel, bloody way to go. Maedhros could not help but fear it was but the first blow against the eldest of Finwë's house; that Finrod, the youngest of the three of them, was first to fall did not bode well. If Fingon were next...

"Shh, shh, it's alright," Fingon murmurs, pressing a kiss to Maedhros' neck. "I'm here, Russo, I'll always be here with you. I promise."

"No oaths," he rasps. It was a joke, once, but there's no humor in it now. Not after the lengths Celegorm and Curufin went for the Oath. Could Maedhros be pushed that far? Was that his doom?

"I don't know how to talk about it," he whispers. "It's...I shouldn't have let them out of my sight. They should've come _here_ after the Bragollach, not fled to Nargothrond—"

"Sauron would still have killed him, even if your brothers hadn't been involved." Fingon's voice is hard, and Maedhros flinches at the name. He's never been able to say it with the vitriol Fingon can, never been able to hate Mairon as he should...

He shudders. "Yes. You're right. And...that's worse."

"Russandol," Fingon says, squirming out from behind him, maneuvering himself until he sits on Maedhros' lap, staring at him solemnly with his piercing blue eyes. "This is not your fault. You wouldn't have done what your brothers did, and you are not responsible for Sauron's actions."

"Wouldn't I?" he asks bitterly, letting his head fall against Fingon's chest. "The Oath—"

"Fuck the Oath," Fingon snaps. He lifts Maedhros' face and kisses him swiftly.

Maedhros squeezes his eyes shut. "I still can't...I know, I _know_ he's depraved, he's evil, but I just...he was so good to me, Finno. How can he have done... _that_ to Ingo?"

"Forget about him," Fingon hisses. "You don't need him. You have me." He shifts in Maedhros' lap, grinding against him. Maedhros knows he's trying to help, trying to distract him, but...

"I can't," he says miserably. "Not...not right now." Fingon's only been here a few hours, and he'll have to leave so very soon—the King can't stay in Himring as long as the Prince could—and he deserves more than Maedhros' self-hating hesitance. But Finno stills immediately, presses gentle kisses to his neck, murmurs sweet nothings to him, and this isn't that much better, but...it is a _little_ better.

"Look at this way," Fingon murmurs after a long time of just lying together, feeling each other's breath. "They _did_ it. Beren and Lúthien—they _took_ a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown! It's _possible_ , it can be done, and it was done by only two people and a dog!"

"A half-Maia and a blessed hound," Maedhros corrects, "and we are no closer to fulfilling the Oath. If you think Thingol will surrender his daughter's bride-price—"

"And a _mortal_ ," Fingon adds.

"My point still stands. We are not Beren and Lúthien, and Huan, the best Fëanorian by far, is dead. We are cursed, Finno, forsaken, Doomed—"

"None of that," Finno says firmly. "First of all, though I concede that Huan was by far the best of your brothers—" Maedhros huffs in amusement— "the best Fëanorian is here, sharing his bed with me."

Maedhros doesn't protest that; he doesn't understand why Finno loves him still, but he does, and that is the greatest blessing in his life.

"And I do not believe we are Doomed utterly," Fingon continues. "Do you not remember Thangorodrim? Manwë sent Thorondor to us, to save _you_! We have lost my father, and we have lost Finrod, and many others besides, but the Noldor still stand. And we are not alone."

"Morgoth will not be fooled again," Maedhros rumbles. "Even if we were blessed by Eru himself we could not waltz into Angband and pluck the jewels from his crown as they did." He shuddered. "I do not think I could force myself to return, to face—him, again."

"I would not make you." Fingon cups his cheek. "We will lure him out, instead. Not alone: together."

"We will need more than the Noldor for that," Maedhros says, but his mind is already working. "If the Sindar aid us...not that Thingol has any love left for us...but Círdan, perhaps, who appreciates us for raising his son; and the dwarves hate Morgoth near as much as we do—"

"And the Atani," Fingon adds. "If Beren's victory has taught us anything, it must be that Men are just as capable of greatness as Eldar."

Maedhros sighs. "I don't know, Finno. It—even if we gathered all of Beleriand against him, I do not know if it would work."

"We must _try_ ," Fingon says, eyes bright. "Would you rather assail Doriath for the Silmaril? Hah! It is no less protected, with the Girdle, but the Sindar are not our enemies no matter that we are not exactly friends. Morgoth yet has two of the jewels: we will wrest them from him, no matter the cost."

There _is_ a cost too great, Maedhros thinks in the back of his mind, but he does not say it, not when Finno is so full of hope that he can almost believe in the future.

* * *

**Amon Rûdh, F.A. 487.**

Fingon can barely believe his eyes. It has been so long since he's seen another elf that was not Maedhros (or Beleg, he reminds himself, though the marchwarden's appearance at Túrin's side is a recent development) that it feels almost _wrong_ to see these two approaching their hill. Especially considering _who_ they are, the cousins he saw least, aside from Artanis in Menegroth.

He motions to his patrol: half men of the Gaurwaith, half Mairon's creatures, with Thuringwethil soaring overhead. Andróg growls, and shifts from man to wolf, ready to attack. It still unsettles Fingon, that he let Mairon do that to him, that he _asked_ for it—but he does not deny the new werewolf's skill in battle. Although he hopes this encounter will not end in a fight.

"Halt," he cries, rising from the shadows. "Who trespasses on the land of the Bow and Helm?"

It was _their_ land first, his and his lovers', but they do not wish their right names to be known, not yet. Túrin does not want that, either, but Maedhros and Beleg convinced him that this front of strength would fool the Enemy into complacency. If Amon Rûdh is the domain of a man and a marchwarden, that is much less of a threat than two resurrected elvenkings and a traitorous Úmaia, or even the mysterious Three Captains. Attention is a dangerous game, and Mairon believes that Morgoth's focus upon the Heir of Hador can be twisted to their benefit, so thus Dor-Cúarthol was named.

The elves stopped, reaching for their own bows. "We have heard rumors of elven lords dwelling here," calls one. "We have...misplaced a kinsman of ours, and we wish to ask after him, if the lords of the fortress would have us."

Fingon closes his eyes for a moment. Russo will hate him for this, he thinks, and Mairon will berate him, but—it is the right thing to do, he knows deep down. He makes his decision.

"Ambarussa, lower your hoods," he declares, and removes his helmet. He is not the nér he once was: his hair has grown back some, but only falls just past his shoulders. It is braided with gold once more, but silver ribbons are intermingled with them to match the silver scars criss-crossing his face. He doesn't recognize himself, sometimes, and yet...

The twins stare at him for a moment, then as one they obey. He beckons them forward, signals for his patrol to lower their guard, and embraces his cousins as they draw near.

Ambarussa look as if they behold a ghost. Well, Fingon thinks, he supposes they have. It is hard to remember, sometimes, that to the world he is dead, for he feels so very _alive_. He thrives here in a way he had not expected, and he knows it is because he is with Maedhros and working toward a worthy goal. And Mairon, also, brings him strength and comfort, more than he thought possible when he first assented to Russo's desires for their companion.

"F...Findekáno?" Pityo whispers as he leads them to the tunnels beneath the hill. "You're..."

" _Alive_?" Telvo finishes for him.

Fingon laughs. "Yes, I live and breathe," he says.

"Did you..." Telvo shudders. "The last we heard of Nelyo was that he went back to...to Angband, to treat with Þauron. Did he—we have heard he is..."

"A Necromancer," Pityo hisses. "Did he—return you from the dead?"

"Only metaphorically." Fingon smiles crookedly, though with the marring of his face, he does not have an alternative. "I was taken from the battlefield and...treated, cared for. As Russo was in his captivity, so long ago."

They reach the fortress, and Fingon ushers them inside. The twins clutch each other as they take in their surroundings: men and wargs, cats and hounds, a few dwarves Mîm and his sons gathered from their hiding places, even a reformed orc or two that Mairon convinced them to recruit. It is not an army worthy of the Noldor King, but Fingon is not that ellon any longer. He is Malador, the Golden Captain, and he fights with the weapons at hand.

"What..." But not even Telvo knows how to finish his twin's sentence. They are both lost for words, somewhat horrified, and Fingon only shrugs.

"Come with me," he says, leading them up the stairs to where the other captains dwell. "I cannot say if he will be _happy_ to see you, but I can hardly keep you from your brother, since you traveled all this way."

"Nelyo is _alive_?" Pityo gasps. "We thought—"

"Finno?" calls Mairon, and it still unnerves him to hear the Maia speak his private name. "Do we have guests? New recruits?"

He grimaces. "Perhaps," he says, and shows the twins inside.

Mairon slides out of Maedhros' lap as they enter, but it is clear to all what he had just been doing. Maedhros head hangs back, his fiery hair spread about him, and he is breathing heavily, with Mairon's marks bruising purple on his neck. His eyes are closed, even as he rights himself, and when they flutter open—

He leaps to his feet, drawing his blade. "What are they doing here?" he roars, fire flashing in his eyes, and Finno frowns, crossing his arms.

"I bring you a courting gift and you don't even say thank you?" He pouts. "Come now, Russo. Haven't you missed your brothers?"

"Finno—" Maedhros trembles. Mairon leans into him, gently guides his arm until his sword is sheathed once more, for which Fingon is grateful. He doesn't want this to turn into a second Kinslaying.

"Nelyo," Telvo sobs, and he rushes forward into his big brother's arms.

All the anger and fear melts away from Maedhros as he hugs his babiest brother. Pityo joins them, and Fingon smiles through the tears in his eyes. Suddenly he misses his own siblings with a fierceness that steals away his breath—Aredhel and Arakáno are dead, but Turukáno lives and mourns him. He does not imagine their reunion would be so bittersweet as this, especially given his new allies and new lover (Turno had hated the first one enough), but they were still _brothers_.

"What are you doing here?" Maedhros demands after the moment has passed. "How are the others? I hear things, but they're vague—Moryo had a skirmish with some dwarves? Did he cheat them or did they turn to darkness?"

"Or did he," Mairon murmurs, so quiet only Fingon hears him. He shoots his lover a glare: he may be a Fëanorian and a Kinslayer, but Caranthir only qualifies as _dark_ with regard to his complexion and his name.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Pityo turns his question back on him. "Nelyo, we thought you were _dead_ , or _worse_ —it nearly killed Kano, to lose you like that a second time, it's been _years_ —"

"I did exactly what I told him I set out to do," Maedhros says, far calmer than Fingon would've been in the face of such an interrogation. "Mairon sent me proof of Finno's survival, and I went to rescue him. As you can see, I succeeded."

"But you—" Telvo glances back to Fingon, and then his gaze strays to Mairon. " _Oh._ "

"What...?" Pityo asks, but he trails off. "Nelyo, you _didn't_. This is _Þauron_ —!"

"Please, call me Mairon," he drawls. "Or Annatar, if you must. In fact, I prefer that name in public, these days."

"Why didn't you come _back_?" Pityo asked, his voice cracking. "Nelyo...we _all_ are hurting without you. You—you weren't there, the first time, when it was Kano leading us...it's even worse now. Tyelko and Curvo won't listen to him; they've left Amon Ereb and camp out by themselves, and we've done that too, now and then, but not in _defiance_ —"

"You may have grudgingly accepted Finno," Maedhros interrupts. "But you would not have welcomed Mairon. After I went to all the trouble of getting them back, _both_ of them, I was not about to lose them. And—" He grits his teeth. "I was _in Angband_ , Ambarussa. I was _there_ and I did nothing about—about the Oath. You would've gutted me for that."

The twins flinch. " _We_ wouldn't," Telvo whispers, "but Tyelko..."

"Curvo..." Pityo echoes. He shrugs. "They scare me, Nelyo. They're...they're wild. They're not who they used to be."

"Well then, bring them here!" Mairon exclaims. "We take in wild strays, if you hadn't noticed. I can even turn your beastly brother into a beast himself, if you think he'd be better behaved."

"Mairon," Maedhros says warningly.

He smiles, batting his lashes. "Only joking, ruby."

Fingon does not particularly want to bring Maedhros' brothers into the fold, but...he cannot ignore the tactical advantage such a move would give them. He catches Maedhros' eyes and shrugs.

The twins exchange a look. "We—" Telvo begins, and then, "The Oath," Pityo says with a frown. "If you—if you think that this would help with...with that, then maybe. It's the only thing keeping us together, at this point."

"I don't give a damn about those fucking rocks," Mairon declares. "I hate Morgoth for my own reasons, but I'm happy to tear them from his crown and give them to my dearly beloved." He pats Maedhros' cheek, and Maedhros flushes slightly. Finno rolls his eyes.

"You know me," he says quietly. "I love Russo. And—I tolerate that brat." He grins at his other lover, and Mairon sticks his tongue out. They are friends and bedfellows, and though neither the adoration that Mairon and Maedhros feel for one another nor the deep connection that runs between Maedhros and Fingon quite present between them, Fingon will admit to himself he loves Mairon, in his own way.

"Our other captains have their own vendettas," Maedhros rumbles. Túrin wants to break his curse; Beleg wants Túrin; Mîm wants revenge. The creatures want blood, mostly, and freedom. "The only people here who desire the Silmarils are those who have the right to them: myself, and you, if you will join us."

"We'll have to talk to Kano," Telvo says after a moment. "But..."

"I would like to stay." Pityo's eyes gleam fiercely. "All these years, I've felt so _useless_ , so empty—"

"Like we're going mad, almost," Telvo adds. "We need—a drive. A focus. We can't attack Doriath, no matter how much Tyelko and Curvo want to, and after the Nírnaeth...we didn't think attacking Morgoth was possible."

"But Findekáno survived that," Pityo says, staring at him in wonder. " _Somehow_. And you're alive too, Nelyo, and you've seduced Gorthaur the Cruel to your side—"

"I resent that comment," Mairon sniffs.

"Maybe this can work," Telvo concludes. He tilts his head. "You know, we thought we would find the lords Naruhir and Annatar and Malador here, and maybe that man with the Dragon-helm. We thought they might have heard of your whereabouts. We didn't expect _you_ to be Naruhir."

"Copper lord." Maedhros shrugs. "It's not _that_ subtle. Would you have preferred Russahir?"

"Oh, no," Finno realizes, and everyone turns to look at him. He smiles sheepishly, running a hand through his dark hair, the gold and silver ribbons gleaming in the torchlight. "It's just—it was bad enough being the only dark-haired one between the two of you. Now the copper-tops really _have_ outnumbered me!"

"Don't worry, Finno," Pityo laughs. "If we can drag the rest of our brothers along, you'll have plenty of company."

"Somehow that is not reassuring," he mutters, but he smiles as he says it.

Perhaps they are not so doomed and damned, after all.

* * *

**Taur-nu-Fuin, F.A. 467.**

Mairon hisses as he licks his wounds, a strange sound to come from a hound. He doesn't know what he is, anymore: he's not the smith who served Aulë, the torturer who followed Melkor, the feline who loved Maitimo, the wolf who ruled his island. He is a shadow of what he once was, broken and beaten and bloodied.

He tries to settle into a single form, but his fana can't seem to choose which one. He fled Tol-in-Gaurhoth in the form of a vampire, taking Thuringwethil's shape for her as he cradled her wounded spirit in his arms. She's alive—barely. Her bat-fell has been ripped from her, and he knows there is a long road ahead of her before she can recover. But if he had to lose every one of his servants, even the wolves, even poor Draugluin...he couldn't lose her too.

He's so _weak_. He hasn't been this helpless since...since Maitimo was taken from him. And then he had the excuse of trembling before his Master, consumed by his force of will. Now he is alone, and has been for so long...

It's been—years? since he lost his island. He thinks it has been. He fell into a deep and dreadful sleep in this wood, and it turned dark and twisted around him. He woke only when he felt Thuri's spirit stir, though she is still delirious, and he fears for her.

Mairon hates Melian's brat, hates her mortal lover, hates that fucking dog, hates Felagund. He hadn't even known his prisoner was Finrod until Lúthien demanded to know his whereabouts; he would've treated the king differently had he known. He remembers Maitimo speaking so fondly of his cousin, bright Ingo who loved the sea; he doesn't think that would've _spared_ Felagund, but...now he'll never know.

Mostly, though, Mairon hates himself. He lost so much, all his pride and power and his people. His wolves—dead, gone. His captains, fled or slaughtered. And Thuringwethil, poor thing, a shell of her former self. He doesn't know if she'll ever be the same.

She won't if they stay here, he knows. In this dark wood they will both perish. There is only horror here, half brought by himself.

But where can he go? His island is fallen, and he has no friends, no allies. He dreads the thought of returning to Angband, where he felt so stifled—and there is no doubt that his punishment for losing Tol-in-Gaurhoth will be severe. Especially since it was his failure that allowed for the theft of a Silmaril. The Master will _destroy_ him.

For a brief moment he remembers Maitimo. His ruby could succor him, he would remember Thuri and have pity on her, and he could...

But it is a foolish fantasy, Mairon knows. Maitimo probably laughed to hear of how Huan, his brother's hound, so easily defeated Mairon. And he had slain Finrod Felagund, Maitimo's cousin and friend. (At least it had not been Fingon, some part of him whispers. Although if Mairon had taken down the High King of the Noldor...perhaps then Melkor would be appeased. No matter; that is not what happened.)

He'd felt so free, so powerful on his island. The only thing that could've made his dominion better would've been his lover at his side, fair Maitimo (or marred Maitimo; truly he didn't care; it was _Maitimo_ he loved) a captain beside him. But that dream has always been unrealistic, and he knows it will never happen.

He cannot flee to Himring, he knows. The rejection and humiliation he would receive from Maitimo is a worse thought than even his Master's punishment. And yet: he cannot stay here, in Taur-nu-Fuin, either. He grows weaker by the day, and if Thuri does not receive proper care soon...

His tools, his instruments of healing, are in his tower in Angband. Perhaps he could take Thuri's shape again, fly up there and...but no. The sentries are ever watchful, especially since Maitimo's rescue, and he would be caught and dragged before the throne.

Mairon shivers, and holds back a retch. He knows what he has to do, though it may kill him to do it. And yet, if he can save Thuri...

Carefully, he gathers her limp and tiny form in his bone-thin arms, and begins his weary march to Angband, the very place he thought he had finally forsaken.

* * *

**Amon Rûdh, F.A. 488.**

They've _won_. He'd barely thought it possible, at first, but they've done it, they've proved it can be done. They fought Morgoth's armies as Amon Rûdh was assailed, and together they _won_.

It's not just that they're victorious—it's the legion they've drawn to their side, in only this single battle. The hordes of foul creatures that serve Morgoth remember Mairon, and they hesitate to attack their own kind, those who fight for the Three Captains of Amon Rûdh. The orcs are less tractable, but they are self-preservationist beyond anything else and recognize a lost battle when they see one.

Maedhros' scheme to use Túrin as bait for the Enemy succeeded: though he and his lovers have been captains of this land far longer than he, with the Dragon-helm to distract from the real plot Morgoth did not anticipate a difficult battle. He _did_ send Gothmog, that bastard Balrog, to destroy Húrin's line—but the force behind him was an even match for what Mairon, Fingon, and Maedhros built over the years.

And it's not just _their_ forces, not anymore. The Ambarussar had dragged Maedhros' other brothers into the fold, and after a few shouting matches with each of them Maedhros had reasserted himself as their leader. He feels more himself, with them around. Maglor disapproves of Mairon, Caranthir of their storehouses; Curufin and Celegorm, perhaps not so surprisingly, are the most eager to work with Mairon's beasts. They still squabble, but to Maedhros Amon Rûdh feels more like home now than it ever had before. He hadn't realized he missed his family so much. Mairon and Fingon had done a good job of making up for their absence, but he's gladder now to have them with him.

The relocation of the Fëanorians to Amon Rûdh brought unwanted attention from Doriath. Mablung was sent as messenger from Thingol, but Beleg managed to talk him down from the threat of outright war. Maedhros had to restrain Curufin from making demands for the Silmaril; it smarts that Thingol has a jewel and refuses to give it up, but they are still working to fulfill the Oath by fighting against Morgoth.

Maedhros hadn't thought he could lead a second Union, not after the first had failed so spectacularly—and in a world without Fingon at his side, he doesn't think he would. But Fingon is _here_ , and Mairon also, and for them and his brothers he can do anything.

This victory tastes so very sweet: half Morgoth's army destroyed, the other half fled or turned to their side. There have never been so many orcs in Amon Rûdh, and Maedhros knows many of the men and elves and dwarves are uneasy with their presence, but they fight with wargs and were-cats and vampires: they can learn to fight with yrch as well.

And not all of them are orcs, either. There is a small force of former thralls, not quite fully turned and yet broken and beaten down so much that even as Lord of Himring he would've been hesitant to welcome them into his household; but here, with Mairon at his side—they are still _elves_ , still of his people, and he knows they will have no braver warriors (save, of course, for Fingon). Túrin and Beleg have taken charge of this group in the immediate aftermath of the battle, speaking to their weary leader, a former lord of Nargothrond captured at the Nírnaeth, explaining how things work here.

Gothmog, the killer of Maedhros' father and would-be destroyer of his beloved, is dead: Mairon and Fingon took him down together in a display of fury and prowess that was beautiful to behold. Maedhros fought his own battles that day, but he still felt a thrill rush through him as he watched his lovers destroy their long-hated foe.

The consequence of such a victory is the end of their secrecy, but Maedhros is tired of hiding. His own warriors know his identity, anyway, have known it since his brothers returned: now the Enemy will know it too. He tears off his copper helm, tosses it aside and shakes out his mane of fiery hair. He grins his distinct and crooked smile, lifts his hand into the air, sword still attached to the stump, and lets out a wild laugh as the remains of their assailants flee.

Fingon joins him, ripping off his own gold helm, and though his disfigurements are less well-known since he received them as and after he "died," there are enough there who recognize the ghostly High King of the Noldor and the ribbons in his hair. And for those who could not see beyond the riverbed of silver scars across his face, they know his name from the way he leaps to Maedhros' side and kisses him, dragging him down and biting his lips.

And Mairon is there, too: wreathed in fire, his hair a glowing orange halo about his face, his armor emblazoned once more with the symbol of the watchful eye, rallying creatures of darkness beneath his banner, his hundred eyes burning bright. He is breathtaking, and Maedhros wants to devour him.

There is nothing about this life that Maedhros would have anticipated. In Valinor he was a different nér entirely; in Angband he hadn't thought he would ever be free; and even afterward, with Fingon, he could not have imagined both he and Mairon in his arms, in his bed, in his heart, forging their own path together.

This battle will not be the last, Maedhros knows. There is much conflict ahead of them, especially now that they have openly declared themselves and drawn Morgoth's gaze toward them. But he does not have his Eye with him: Mairon is on _their_ side, at Maedhros' side. Finding allies will be difficult, with their army of outcasts and fiends, but surely Fingon Malador the Valiant can draw Gondolin and Nargothrond beneath their banner if they prove their prowess. Doriath may be impossible, he admits, but with Gil-galad at the Havens...their son never hated Maedhros before, and he doubts he will despise Naruhir either.

Maedhros is still covered and blood and sweat and ash when Fingon pulls him into their rooms, grabbing Mairon with his other hand. Maedhros lets him, for he has but the one hand; Finno is always good at sensing what he wants, what he needs, and helping him get there. Mairon clings to his back, already mouthing at his neck and rutting against his rear and Maedhros, too, is half-delirious with desire.

Fingon rips Mairon off him as soon as they slam their door closed, stripping him down. "Beautiful," he breathes once the Maia's flesh is bared for him, and Mairon moans as he kneels and takes him in his mouth, his many eyes glistening as they roll back. His fana shifts to something more elf-like, and though Maedhros always finds him beautiful, he is ravishing like this.

"I'll—never get over this," Mairon pants. "The— _nghh_ —High King of the Noldor, at my feet, _worshipping_ me—"

Maedhros falls back into their bed, twisting at the sword screwed into his prosthetic. "Can't—fucking—" he growls, and Mairon pulls Fingon off him, eyes gleaming.

"This is _your_ fault, go fix it," Mairon orders, and though Fingon rolls he his eyes he crawls to Maedhros' side and helps him with the blade. As soon as he throws it off the bed, Maedhros pulls him up for a kiss, tasting Mairon on his lips. With his hand he fumbles at Fingon's belt—he lost his armor somewhere between the battlefield and the bedroom—and grins when Fingon keens as the fingers he has left wrap around his cock.

"You're still—wearing far too much—" Fingon whines, scrabbling at his clothes, and Mairon laughs and saunters over to unbuckle his breastplate, his tunic, his shoulder brace.

Soon they are all three naked and making all sorts of filthy noises, and Maedhros is pressed down with the weight of both his lovers atop him as they kiss. He reaches up to cup Mairon's ass with his hand, teasing his entrance with his fingers, and Mairon cries out as he slips one inside.

"Get some fucking oil if you're gonna—" he complains, and Fingon makes some snide comment about how shapeshifting isn't all that useful if you can't make yourself wet and open on command. Mairon kisses him until he shuts up; Maedhros slicks his finger and shoves it back inside him, then adds another for good measure. He moves his other arm so his stump presses against the cleft of Fingon's ass, and Finno gasps at the unexpected sensation, and then—

Maedhros squeezes his eyes shut, trying to control himself as a fantasy washes over him. His lovers notice his pause and immediately still, Fingon covering him in kisses and assuring him they can stop if he needs to, Mairon biting his lip and nodding though it looks like it's taking everything in him to not fuck himself on Maedhros' fingers.

"No, no, I'm—" he swallows; smiles— "I just...had an idea, and I had to—" He laughs. "You two are both so incredibly hot it shouldn't be allowed, I had to stop and make sure I wouldn't come just from the image in my head alone."

Mairon takes that as an invitation to resume pressing down against his fingers, and Maedhros finds the spot inside him that has him shouting out his name: _Maitimo, Maitimo, oh ruby, oh Maitimo—!_ And Maedhros doesn't even mind his old name, because it's Mairon screaming it, and he knows he is still beautiful to both of them, just as he finds Fingon even more breathtaking now than he did before, just as he loves Mairon the monster the same as he loves him like this.

"Care to share, melindo?" Finno breathes, leaning back against the stump of his arm, and Maedhros nods, pressing their foreheads together and opening up his mind and—

" _Ohhhh,_ " Fingon breathes, jerking forward and falling into Mairon's chest, and they both groan as their leaking cocks brush against each other. _Yes,_ that's what Maedhros wants, or part of it, and with the contact between Mairon and Fingon he knows that Mairon is seeing it too, and babbling out, " _Yes yes yes yes—_ "

"I need your help with this, then," Maedhros grunts, working another finger into Mairon. "Open him up for me, kitten, as much as you can."

Fingon leans down to give Maedhros a sloppy kiss, then falls back, offering his ass to Mairon, who takes the oil and coats his fingers. As Maedhros keeps working at him, Mairon presses into Fingon, stretching him thoroughly as Maedhros remembers he's been stretched before, and he feels a twinge of regret that his plan will leave his own channel empty. Maybe next time they can fill him up with a plug, but their toys are in a chest on the other side of the room, and none of them want to leave the bed right now.

"I think—" Mairon gasps as Maedhros' finger brushes against his spot again— "I th-think he's ready—"

Maedhros inspects Fingon, who is trembling as Mairon pumps four fingers in and out of him, eyes rolled back in his head, his breathing fast and shallow.

" _Please,_ Russo," he begs, "I can take it, I've taken it before—"

"I don't know," he muses, astonished he has the presence of mind to tease,. He slips his fingers out of Mairon, and the Maia whines at the loss, but keeps working at Fingon. Maedhros presses one digit into Finno alongside Mairon, and Finno screams as his flesh yields, begging for more, and Maedhros knows he's ready.

"Alright," he decides, and he can barely believe that his voice doesn't tremble. He's achingly hard; his lovers have been neglecting him as he prepares them, but that's a good thing if he doesn't want to come the moment he's inside someone. He lies back down against the pillows, grins up at them. "You'll be doing most of the work, you know."

"Fucking get in my ass you fucking _tease_ ," Finno growls, lifting himself off the bed.

Maedhros beckons him into a kiss, arranging his arm at the right angle and bracing himself for pressure—and then Finno presses onto his stump, his mouth falling open as he sinks down on his arm and takes him almost down to the elbow.

It's a sight Maedhros will never get over; he's come before just watching his beloved do this, feeling the slide and drag of Finno's walls against the scars Finno put there. But they've only just begun, and now it's Mairon who's kissing him, begging for his cock, and Maedhros' hips jerk upward in invitation: _Come and get it_.

Mairon straddles his lap as Finno lifts himself up from the first thrust, and catching each other's eye they fall (back) down onto him at the same time, and Maedhros howls as the sensation overwhelms him.

He loses himself as they all join together, his lovers sometimes working in sync to drive him wild, at other times finding an alternating rhythm so he never has a respite, and it's just as good as Maedhros imagined, or better. He's trembling, trying to meet them as they ride him, arm and cock both, but he's not coordinated enough, not while he's drowning in all these sensations.

Fingon takes Mairon's cock in hand, and Mairon returns the favor; with their other hands they each reach down to play with Maedhros' nipples, and before he knows it, before he can even warn them, he's arching half-off the bed and coming, spilling into Mairon even as his kitten clenches around him, and Finno lets out some garbled complaint about not getting to have Maedhros' seed.

"N-next time," Mairon groans, taking every drop Maedhros gives him, and as soon as Maedhros can think again he bats their hands away from each other.

"You're not gonna come 'til I let you," he growls, and they both glare at him. Fingon doesn't let up his motion, and even as Maedhros cock starts to soften Mairon still presses down on him, cursing him and trying to find the right angle again.

"Ah— _ahhh_ ," Maedhros whines, overstimulated. "M-Mairon—"

"Fucking let me come then!" Mairon spits, rutting against the leg Fingon has sprawled over Maedhros' lap.

Maedhros can't deny him, can't deny either of them, not for long, not without mental preparation beforehand. He only has the one hand, but his palm is large and his fingers strong: he wraps it around both their cocks, pressing them together, pumping them until they're both shuddering around him and coming together, all over him.

They lie there, shaking and groaning, for a few moments; at last, Mairon slouches off him, and Maedhros lets out a low moan of relief. Fingon stays a little longer; Maedhros' scars are sensitive but his arm can't soften like a cock, and Finno likes to push his limits. But eventually he, too, pushes himself off Maedhros, and curls up against his chest. Mairon mewls, and snuggles into his other side.

"That was...incredible," his kitten whispers, eyes glazed over a little. "Love you, ruby." He pauses, then adds, "Love you too, Finno."

Fingon kisses him sleepily. "Yeah, sure, whatever," he mumbles. "Love you, Russo. An' you're pretty great, too, _Annatar_."

"We should do that again at some point," Mairon says.

"I get his cock next time," Fingon claims, and Maedhros snorts. He loves it when they fight over him; he loves it when he and Finno fight over who gets to have Mairon for the evening, especially since that often means they'll take him together, their cocks pressed tight within Mairon's hot, wet channel. It's not so common that he and Mairon fight over Finno, but it's happened, just like it's happened that they team up to drive him mad.

"Fine," Mairon agrees, "but you do understand why you get the stump more often?"

"Look, if that's what cutting off his hand will get me, I'll take the other one too," Finno teases.

"Please don't," Maedhros mutters, and they both laugh, covering his face with kisses. "And anyway...next time, I have a request, too."

They look at him. Mairon's cat-eyes are wide and curious, and Finno asks, "What?"

He smiles sleepily, feeling safe and loved and sated. "I feel left out, to be so empty while you're full of...me. I want you to put a plug in me, so every time you move and push me into the bed I can feel it _everywhere_."

Mairon moans, and Maedhros feels Finno's cock against his thigh twitch in interest, and he laughs.

"Not right now," he says, eyes fluttering closed. "Gotta...sleep. Victory takes it out me."

"We'd better win every battle, then," Finno decides, and Maedhros laughs softly, so incredibly glad to have his beloved with him, and Mairon too.

"Love you, kitten," he mumbles as he drifts asleep. "'N you, arimelda. Kánya. My Finno."

* * *

**Barad Eithel, F.A. 472, the night before Midsummer's Day.**

"We'll win this," Maedhros promises, because if they don't he won't survive. Either he'll die, or—or he'll fade away without Finno. They'll win; they _have_ to.

Finno hums, busy pressing his tongue into Maedhros' hole, and the vibration has Maedhros whining and forgetting what it is they'll win. Finno teases him for what feels like ages before withdrawing his tongue and replacing it with—

"Don't need your fucking _fingers_ ," Maedhros curses. "Get your cock in me—"

"Patience, arimeldanya," Finno murmurs. "Good things come to those who wait."

"I need you," he begs as Fingon stretches him, and come on, he's taken more before with less preparation, from Finno and from—but he shoves thoughts of Mairon away, focusing on the lover who's with him, who saved him, who will march with him against the Enemy on the morn. It's been so long in the making, this day, and Maedhros needs to know that Finno will be with him, _always_ , in every way—

He tells him this, pleading, pleading, and Finno only chuckles.

"In every way?" he tuts. "But you only seem interested in _one_ way, right now."

" _Kánya,_ I swear to Eru—"

Finno claims his mouth in a kiss. "No Oaths," he whispers, at last relenting. "And if I'm really your commander you shouldn't be ordering _me_ around like that." He pulls his fingers out, and Maedhros' hole twitches at the emptiness, but he sobs in relief as Finno presses his cock into him in one slow motion.

"No Oaths, no Oaths," he babbles, "just _you_ —always, only you—"

Fingon punctuates his statement with sharp thrust, and Maedhros cries out, feeling dizzy and overwhelmed with love and lust and hope and trust.

"We'll win this," Fingon growls, biting a mark into his neck as he moves within him. "I love you, Russo, and we _will_ win this, and you'll be _free_."

There are other things that will need to happen before that, even if they _do_ win (and in truth Maedhros is not so sure, that's why he needs this, needs _Finno_ , so desperately tonight), but Finno is with him and around him and inside him and Maedhros can't remember what those things are. Right now, in this moment, they don't matter—right now Finno is _here_ , and Maedhros trusts he always will be.

* * *

**Mordor, early Second Age.**

"I don't want _one_ ring," Mairon complains to the elf that will soon be his nephew. "We need _three_ , Tyelpë!"

"Three rings for elven-kings?" Tyelpë proposes, and Mairon rolls his eyes.

"Not the time for poetry!" he exclaims. "And you know I'm no elf, even if I am sort of a king. Besides, you know your uncle and your cousin; they haven't been kings in a very long time."

"Not so long for Finno," Tyelpë points out, but he opens another case. "Anyway, I just thought you might like that ring."

"It _is_ pretty, even in its simplicity," Mairon admits. "I would certainly wear it. But—you said it doesn't have a match."

"How about these, then?" Tyelpë shows him a set of three rings, and Mairon gasps.

"They're gorgeous," he whispers. "And—" He traces a finger over the jewels, feeling a thrum of power. "Tyelpë! You used that spell I taught you!"

He grins. "It's in the other one, too. I just—I already put a bit of my fëa into these three, but I haven't that one, not yet. I can take it out if you want to use these for your wedding rings; you can all...twine your spirits together, in each of them? So you'll always be together, even when you're apart. Even when you're too far for the marriage bond."

It's a beautiful thought. Mairon's eyes mist over with tears. He still can't believe he's going to be _married_ , not just to his kitten, but to Finno too. For Maitimo to share Fingon with him, for Fingon to share Maitimo, not only in bed but in their _souls_...Mairon knows how much trust that requires, and he doesn't take it for granted.

Each ring is delicate and beautiful, with a jewel embedded into it: one has a sapphire, another an emerald, the last a ruby. Mairon knows immediately which will belong to each.

"Vilya," Tyelpë says when he touches the emerald ring. This one will be his. Vilya, air, for his freedom.

"Nenya," Tyelpë murmurs as he inspects the sapphire ring. Finno's, of course; it's the same deep blue as his eyes. Nenya, water, bold and gentle both.

"And Narya," Tyelpë says of the ruby ring. This one is Maitimo's: a ruby for his ruby. Narya, fire, for the fire of life, of passion, of his spirit burning within him.

Still, something draws Mairon back to the first ring, a plain gold band. Something about it calls to him. He takes the three rings and thanks Tyelpë; but he keeps thinking about the gold, about vows, about fire...

Their happiness is hard won. The War of Wrath was long and difficult, and so very many people died. Túrin, Beleg, the petty-dwarves, all of Maedhros' brothers save Maglor, so many of Mairon's creatures... But Mairon lives, and Fingon and Maedhros, and Thuringwethil flies free in this new dark land Mairon cultivates for the outcasts and exiles and creeping things with nowhere else to go.

The Valar, when they came at last to the aid of the people of Beleriand, would have punished the Three Captains had they the chance. But while the people of Gondolin and Doriath and Nargothrond and the Havens bowed to their jugement, those of Amon Rûdh fled before the first shoreline collapsed into the sea.

Morgoth fell, and though Mairon feels cheated that he didn't get to strike the killing blow, some small part of him is grateful he never came face-to-face with his Master after his betrayal. He hates that he's afraid of crumbling to the Dark Vala's will, but it's a distant fear, now, with Melkor locked in the Void.

Mairon thinks he, too, might've been cast there, along with the Sons of Fëanor even despite the Oath's fulfillment—it had taken another Kinslaying, bloody and horrible and almost unforgivable, to regain the jewels from the Host of the Valar. But he and Maedhros escaped, Maglor with them, and Fingon could never hate them for long; especially not when every other Fëanárion perished in the battle. Those first centuries after were difficult, but things are _good_ now, and Mairon has never been happier.

The twins and Gil helped. Maedhros' children, shared with Maglor and Fingon respectively, feel like Mairon's sons, too. Ereinion Gil-galad is King of the Noldor after Turgon sailed back to Valinor; Elrond and Elros are plotting the foundation of their own realms of elves and men. The twins were in Maglor's care for a time during the war, when he was healing from an injury and their birth parents too busy fighting, and when the time came for Elwing and Eärendil to follow the summons of the Valar, Maedhros helped his brother abscond with them into the east. It was what they wanted, what their birth parents couldn't accept. Mairon is so incredibly proud of them.

They're here, at the wedding: Maglor and Elrond and Elros and Gil-galad. Tyelpë, lord of Ost-in-Edhil, is here too; the only other Finwëan to live and dwell still in Middle-earth is Galadriel, who despises the Three Captains for her own reasons (some fair, some petty) She is conspicuously absent. Fingon invited her, much to Maedhros' annoyance, but Mairon's ruby shouldn't have worried.

Mairon gives the rings, Tyelpë's creations, to his lovers. The process of binding their fëar together is intense and overwhelming; the process of binding their fëar to the rings is no less so. But when it's done, Mairon _feels_ his husbands deep in his soul, and hidden in the emerald on his finger.

The thought of that single golden ring, that one ring, doesn't leave him. He gathers the materials, studies Tyelpë's notes (he's gone far beyond the original spell Mairon taught him, expanding ring-lore into its own field of study), and waits for a time where he's alone.

Maedhros and Fingon are visiting Gil in Lindon for a few years. Mairon stays behind: he misses them terribly, but thanks to Tyelpë's cleverness he can still feel the warmth of their fëar even when they're gone far beyond the normal range of a marriage bond. Sometimes the ring burns bright, sending a rush of desire pulsing through him. Mairon hopes Tyelpë hadn't been thinking about _that_ effect when crafting his spell, but he's not complaining. He likes to know when his husbands are fucking, so he can take himself in hand at the same time and feel their passion even when they aren't there.

And if he does this right, if he makes this ring, this one ring, the way he wants...well. The distance between Mordor and Lindon will feel like nothing.

He finishes his work in the forges of Orodruin and pours his spirit into it. If he lost this ring it would be...well, that could quite possibly be the end of him, but he has no intention of it ever leaving his finger—unless he's lending it to one of his husbands.

When he's done, he feels...spent. Exhausted. He could've collapsed in bed and slept for days, but—his wedding ring burns bright, and Mairon smiles. It's time to test his creation.

He climbs to the top of his tower, overlooks his kingdom. Maedhros and Fingon insist upon green lands at the edges, but this is a place of volcanoes and dark skies, and it feels like _home_ to a fire Maia. Mairon is so proud of this place, of the people he serves. The only thing that would make it better is if his husbands were here—and they would return in time, he knew, but until then...

Mairon slips the ring on his finger. Immediately he gasps as his fëa flies up and out, grabbing onto the threads of Maitimo's fëa, of Finno's fëa, chasing them west to Lindon. He feels—he feels—

Suddenly he's _there_ , he's in bed with Finno and his ruby, and though it's still hard to see them, he _feels_ them, feels their pleasure, feels their love, feels their fëar. It's almost more than he can bear.

There's a lull in the movement, of one of his husbands rocking into the other—it's hard to tell which is which, in this state, but it doesn't really matter—and in Morder his fana smiles.

 _Mairon?_ his ruby asks, surprise and joy bright within him.

 _So much for alone time!_ grumbles Finno, but he's light and teasing and happy, too.

Maitimo laughs, and scolds him, _You were just pretending I was your_ other _husband, Finno—_

 _Shut up,_ Finno cries, _I don't want him to know I like him!_

 _We're married,_ Mairon says, and tears of joy are budding in his eyes. _You bound your soul to mine until the end of Arda—_

 _Alright, I love you, is that what you wanted?_ Fingon huffs. _How are you even—it's too far for the bond!_

 _Magic,_ Mairon says smugly, and he can feel even Maitimo roll his eyes at that. _One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them; one ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them._ He pauses. _Tyelpë says the poetry helps in the forging. I think he might just be romantic._

Finno laughs, and Mairon feels their bodies shift, their lovemaking start up again. _Can you feel us?_ he asks breathlessly, or—the mental equivalent of breathlessness. _Can you feel it like you're here, like you're in my hröa, like Maitimo is fucking you—_

Mairon moans: this isn't the only reason he crafted this ring, but it's certainly an advantage. _Yes,_ he whispers, _and I can feel it like I'm him, too, inside of you and him within me at the same time—_

 _Fuck!_ Maitimo growls, and then he's coming, and Mairon feels his pleasure rip through him, and he moans, alone at the top of his tower. _Eru damn it—Mairon, I wanted to last longer than that—_

 _My turn!_ Finno exclaims, flipping Maedhros on his back and rising off him. He pulls a plug out of Maitimo—how did Mairon not notice that earlier?—and replaces it with his cock, and Maitimo cries out in ecstacy, already hardening, and Mairon reaches into his robes and strokes himself to Fingon's rhythm.

It's so much, and he can feel all of it: Mairon doesn't last long either, and as he comes Finno falls apart too, spilling into Maitimo, and it's beautiful and filthy and Mairon aches with missing them even when his mind is right there with him.

 _You have to try this, when you get back,_ he murmurs as his husbands settle into each other's arms. _Fuck, vennonyar...that was almost as good as the real thing. I can't imagine how it will feel with your bodies on mine._

They're falling asleep, drifting into dreams, but they send their love and their murmurs of _I miss you, we miss you_ and their low-burning desire as they do. Mairon holds onto their fëar as long as he can, until they're well and truly quiet—there, present, but calm and unresponsive as they sleep.

Mairon takes a deep breath, happiness warming his chest. How did he get here, to this wonderful place, with two adoring husbands who are with him even when they are apart? There's been so much pain and loss and grief along the way, but it's all been worth it, to have this.

Mairon is free and alive and _loved_. He lifts his the ring—golden, plain, simple, yet thrumming with power, the words of his poem burning in Tengwar on the inside, the words of his wedding vows blazing on the outside—to his lips, and kisses it. It's cooling slowly, but it's still warm against his lips, and he feels a spark of love bursting along their bond, bright even in his husbands' slumber.

He kisses his rings again, his wedding band and the One Ring both, and he smiles, looking west to where his husbands lie sleeping and into the setting Sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations & Inspirations:  
>  **Kánya** = "my Káno" or "my commander" (Q.) ; taken from Philosophizes' bullet point fic "[In Equal Measure](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25173181)" (which is SO FUCKING GOOD READ IT Y'ALL)  
>  **fana** = the Ainur equivalent of "hröa" (Q.) ; more malleable than the Children's physical bodies, especially for shapeshifters like Mairon  
>  **arimeldanya** = "dearly beloved one" (Q.)  
>  **tenn' ambar-metta** = "until the end of the world" (Q.) ; from Aragorn's coronation song, but also frequently used within the [Russ and Finno Verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/112541) as a vow between Maedhros and Fingon  
>  **Naruhir** = "copper lord" (S.) ; Maedhros' name as one of the Three Captains  
>  **Malador** = "gold lord" (S.) ; Fingon's name as one of the Three Captains  
>  **Annatar** = "lord of gifts" (Q.) ; the canon name for Mairon's disguise while manipulating Celebrimbor, used here as his name as one of the Three Captains  
>  **vennonyar** = "my husbands" (Q.)
> 
> Additional Inspirations:  
> The concept of Mairon sending Maedhros Fingon's braid as proof he's still alive was taken from potatoesanddreams' fic "[fools enough to love each other more than we can bear](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24781258)." This was one of the fics that got me really wanting to write a Fingon Lives AU!  
>   
> While my headcanons surrounding this iteration of Gil-galad aren't quite the same as hers, and I didn't really intend for the scenes to be so mirrored, ArvenaPeredhel's fic "[About the Baby](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25740937)" is similar to the scene where Maedhros finds out about about Fingon's son.
> 
> ETA 9/17/20: I remembered some more things that inspired me! Here are some posts about Thuringwethil's backstory: [one](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/187656608992/interesting-im-not-sure-about-all-bats-being), [two](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/190709400969/eccentricmya-my-silmarillion-soul), [three](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/136262081047/then-arose-thorondor-king-of-eagles-and-he-loved)  
> And here's a [ficlet](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/629568541204578304/excited-to-see-you-hit-3000-if-youre-still) about that, set in the same verse as this one!
> 
> Some final plugs: You should absolutely check out mallyrn's [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallyrn/) and [tumblr](http://silmallyrn.tumblr.com/), as well as the Tolkien RSB's [AO3 collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TolkienRSB_20) and [tumblr](http://tolkienrsb.tumblr.com/)!  
> My own tumblr is [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/) \- and guess what? This is not the only collaboration I worked on for this event! I wrote two other fics and created three art pieces - you can find links to those [here](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/628073213711269888/annas-trsb20-masterpost)!  
> 
> 
> Thank you so very much for reading this fic, it truly means the world to me! I would very much LOVE to hear your thoughts on the story; please drop a comment if you enjoyed!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [sister mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27363232) by [starlightwalking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking)




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